


Said Sleeping Beauty To The Big Bad Wolf

by Whispering_Sumire



Series: TW Bingo♡ [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (hinted) Neglect, ALL THE ANGST, Abuse, Abusive Peter Hale, Adorable, Aftercare, Alive Hale Family, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Angst, Background Relationships, Biting, Cheating, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cravings, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derek Needs To Use His Words, Domestic Fluff, Empath Stiles Stilinski, Empathy, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family, Family Feels, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Guilt, Heartfelt Conversations, Holidays, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, Knotting, Light BDSM, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Nightmares, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Pack Bonding, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Painter Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Pining, Praise Kink, Puppy Piles, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski are Brothers, Scott is a Good Friend, Scratching, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Needs a Hug, Subdrop, Subspace, Suicidal Thoughts, Symbolism, Thanksgiving, True Mates, Unplanned Pregnancy, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 58,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: The guy zeroes in on him with such intense focus that Derek kind of wants to run away, or maybe drown in those eyes, or maybe wrap the guy up in cotton and protect him from everything forever. Instead, wracked with indecision and overstimulation, his brain just shuts off. He doesn't know if he's thankful or mad at it for that, because that just leaves him looking into warm honeyed whiskey eyes which are as wide and inviting and beautiful as the day is young.Cinnamon-spice attraction, tangy lemon curiosity, all wind-swept and coated with wild berries. The smell of him is overwhelming. Considering who he's engaged to, though? The influx of interest on his part is a little worrying and not something Derek wants to trust at all.Laura is wrinkling her nose, at this point. Derek doesn't necessarily blame her.His Mom, however, just gives the guy a sharp look before schooling her expression, standing from her chair at Peter's bedside and saying: "Are you Peter's fiancée?"[Or: The one where Peter is the Beast and Stiles is Sleeping Beauty and Derek is the Big Bad Wolf, only, the Beast is the one sleeping, and all the Big Bad Wolf wants to do issaveSleeping Beauty.]





	1. While The Beast Sleeps, Sleeping Beauty Finds His Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning - Abusive Relationship, vivid imagery used; panic attacks and some other things, _do not_ read this fic if that will bother you.
> 
> Hugs and kisses to the brave souls who embark on this journey with me! I hope you enjoy the first chapter! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Really, really, really loosely based off of While You Were Sleeping, lol

Peter is sated behind him, already moved on from post-orgasm bliss to indifference and uncaring, he can feel it. He sometimes wishes he weren't an Empath. Then he remembers it's the last gift his mother gave him before she died and he decides it's okay.

Or, well, not okay, but he'll live- he'll have something of hers to cling to.

When he gets up, covered in sweat and cum and slick, Peter just grunts, rolls over, falls asleep.

He's not in love with this man, though he knows him intimately and understands him better than most would, than most could, but Stiles had been lonely and he'd needed an Alpha.

Peter had been lonely too, Stiles felt it on him.

That they ended up together like this was simple, biological, and probably far more shallow on Peter's side than on Stiles'. After all, there may not be love there, but Stiles still _cares_. Kind of hard not to when you can feel everything everyone around you is feeling.

Peter shivers, there's a spike of discomfort, Stiles covers him with the blanket, cards fingers through his hair, and leaves him to take a quick shower.

After he sloughs all the grime and sex and salt off of his skin he stares at himself in the mirror, the hickeys, and bruises. Peter was unusually rough tonight, frustrated and angry and a little ashamed.

Stiles wonders if a case went wrong, maybe? He doesn't know, never asks.

* * *

Derek is glaring at his Uncle, whose prone body is hooked up to IVs and monitors, who's the reason he along with the rest of the Pack are stationed in a cramped room in a disgusting hospital that _smells_.

He knows he shouldn't be blaming his Uncle for getting into a car accident, but he's having a hard time with it. Peter's an _ass_ , some part of Derek is wondering if this wasn't done on purpose. Some clever manipulative stunt.

It's only Mom, Laura and him right now- the Doctors had said that Peter was fine, for the most part, but they had no idea when he was gonna wake up. Honestly, that wasn't the most shocking thing the Doctors had said, no, what was most disturbing was when they revealed that he'd been brought in with an Omega, an Omega who wasn't hurt as badly and had left him to go do something that couldn't fucking wait, apparently, an Omega who had had a ring on their finger and was seemingly _engaged_ to Peter (without _any_ of the Pack's knowledge), an Omega who _wasn't_ Kate (the Omega everyone _thought_ Peter was dating and getting serious with).

Needless to say, everyone was burning with curiosity. Derek was just pissed, he may not like his Uncle much, but what kind of fiancée leaves their partner after they've been in a car crash? What the fuck?

Just as he's thinking that, a young man comes bursting into the room smelling of anxiety, irritation, impatience, and a hint of fever-heat, like their Heat has only just receded. He also smells _amazing_ , and it's not just the pheromones (although that adds to it), he smells like blackberries and lakes and clay and lavender. Gods, his wolf just wants to wrap itself up in it and roll around and take deep greedy breaths.

Then he sees the ring on the guy's finger, it glints in the terrible overbearing light the hospital provides. It's like he's been dipped in an ice bath and he instantly feels guilty for having been pissed at the guy, for having had a weird primal reaction to his scent, because this is Peter's Omega. Who was apparently in Heat when the car accident happened, poor guy.

Although, this raises a fucking lot more questions than it does answers, because he may be an Omega, but he's a _guy_ and Derek had no idea his Uncle swung that way. Not that he minds, Derek swings pretty heavily that way himself, it's just, how many secrets was Peter keeping from them? Because if his Mom's and Laura's expressions are any indication, they didn't know either. And this guy is so _young_ , like maybe a little older than twenty, at _most_ , younger than Derek himself, _way_ younger than Peter.

The guy is staring hard at Peter, eyes raking over him, fists clenching and unclenching several times. He huffs, shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and then his heart stutters, Derek hears it, and the guy zeroes in on him with such intense focus that Derek kind of wants to run away, or maybe drown in those eyes, or maybe wrap the guy up in cotton and protect him from everything forever. Instead, wracked with indecision and overstimulation, his brain just shuts off. He doesn't know if he's thankful or mad at it for that, because that just leaves him looking into warm honeyed whiskey eyes which are as wide and inviting and beautiful as the day is young.

Cinnamon-spice attraction, tangy lemon curiosity, all wind-swept and coated with wild berries. The smell of him is overwhelming. Considering who he's engaged to, though? The influx of interest on his part is a little worrying and not something Derek wants to trust at all.

Laura is wrinkling her nose, at this point. Derek doesn't necessarily blame her.

His Mom, however, just gives the guy a sharp look before schooling her expression, standing from her chair at Peter's bedside and saying: "Are you Peter's fiancée?"

The guy blinks at Derek a few more times, as Derek consciously tries to melt into the wall he's leaning against, before turning to, for the first time it seems, take in Mom and Laura.

"Yeah, yep, yes I am, that's me. Um. Hi, hello. Sorry. Stiles, I'm um, Stiles, my name is Stiles. You're, uh, Talia, right?"

His Mom's eyes soften somewhat as the guy babbles, his voice is deep, as honeyed as his eyes, all intelligent-smoke and clumsiness. She smiles at him, small and motherly, "Yes. I'm Talia, it's nice to meet you, Stiles."

Then she's reaching out a hand, to shake his probably, only-

He flinches, like a full body jerk away, like he expects the contact she's offering to be painful, his heart-rate ticking up and his scent instantly souring, flush with an aggressive kind of terror that makes Derek want to whine.

Then, the scent vanishes, all of it, the wildberries and wind and lake-water and fear, covered with cold and ice and just the smallest hints of pain. Laura is staring at him wide-eyed and their Mother is frowning because everything about all of what just happened is so _fucking_ wrong.

But Stiles, he just flails a little, covers up the flinch expertly, makes his heartbeat settle, smiles wide and open and takes his Mom's hand in his. If they weren't werewolves they might've even bought it, that's how good it was.

Conditioned, practiced and perfected.

"Are you alright?" Laura asks, because she's nosy, and because he's obviously not.

"Yes, I'm fine." Lie. "Well, I mean," he laughs a little breathlessly, letting go of Mom's hand, "apart from the whole car crash thing- speaking of, I'm so sorry I had to leave right after it happened, my Heat hit, like, at the worst possible time, but what can you do? Biology. Anyway, the Doc says he's fine? Just, like, a little comatose? Or, y'know, not a little, a lot, but yeah, he's healthy, just- not- not waking up. Also, sorry we had to meet like this, I swear I was planning on making a much better first impression, and oh my god, why didn't he ever tell me his whole family was beautiful? Like, you're all gorgeous, pictures don't do you justice, it's incredibly intimidating, and Mother Mary, am I still talking? Sorry, can't take Adderall for two more days, because, yeah. Biology."

By the time he's done talking Derek is gaping a little and wondering if he ever finds time to breathe around all those words, his Mom is full on smiling, with the beginnings of fondness in her eyes, and Laura is chuckling behind her hand, blushing unashamedly.

"I like you," Laura declares, "he can keep you."

"I think you're making a wonderful first impression, dear." Mom tells him, and he grins at her.

His scent is coming back, slow, tentative, still a little sour, but the ice, the cold shut-down of emotion? That's gone.

Derek breathes a sigh of relief before he can help himself and Stiles turns to look at him, still smiling, but- it might just be Derek's imagination- it looks a little brittle.

"And you're Derek, right?" He asks, soft, quiet, perfect. Derek keeps himself from breathing in his scent, tries to make his heart slow the fuck down because he _knows_ he shouldn't be feeling anything for this guy, his Uncle's fiancée, a stranger he just met.

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with him?

Derek just nods, his arms crossed defensively over his chest, and is surprised to see Stiles' grin become just a tad more genuine, his body tensing when he sees how it melts the honey in those eyes, makes them sun-lit amber full of life.

"I think I could have a whole conversation with just your eyebrows, dude," he says, and Laura cackles. Derek glares at her, is thankful and devastated in equal measure when Stiles turns and starts talking to her, too.

He tells them he knows them all from photos and conversations he's had with Peter and, oddly enough, google. Says he gets insatiably curious and researches _everything_ and gets hyperfocused sometimes because of his ADHD. Unabashedly tells them he spent three weeks researching their whole family, asks if they know that one of their ancestors was one of the founding fathers of Beacon Hills along with an Argent ancestor, but that the Hales and the Argents had some sort of bad-blood going on and there was some kind of fued over the land and the Hales won and banished them from town, thinks it's oddly ironic that Peter and Kate are (were, he quickly amends himself, but the slip was there, and Derek can't help but wonder when, exactly, Stiles and his Uncle started dating) a thing.

He compliments them all at least fifteen times, gushing about how amazing Mom is at being a lawyer, that he's sure Peter wants to be just like her, that her genetics are amazing; he marvels like an idiot at Laura's tattoos, tells her he loves all the work of hers he's seen, says she's a wonderful artist and asks if she could look at his work sometime because apparently, he paints; tells Derek he might like to go to his gym/boxing club sometime, that his best friend Scott has a membership, that Derek helped the guy get first-line in highschool and that was awesome, they're both eternally grateful.

He tells Derek to use his words at least three times and in the span of an hour has nicknamed him 'Grumpybrows'.

He's annoying, Derek decides.

Laura and his Mom seem to be entirely taken with him, though, and agree immediately when he asks if he can stay awhile.

Derek kinda wants to punch him.

They spend the rest of the day seriously discussing the entire history of the male circumcision. In detail. It's gross. Derek's going to have nightmares.

* * *

They can't _all_ hold vigil, not forever, anyway, and they all have jobs, but they're also Pack. The good thing about that is there're a lot of them- they're all connected- they'll all always have each other's backs.

So they take turns, tag in, tag out.

And everyone meets Stiles after awhile, because the guy is almost always at the hospital with Peter, though he goes home to shower and sleep and change occasionally. And everyone _loves_ Stiles, because he fills the empty spaces with talk and he's always moving and laughing and he's filled with so much light and life.

Plus he smells good to all of them, not just Derek (although Derek wonders if maybe he's a little more ardent about this conclusion than the others are).

The fear strangled by ice thing has happened several times now, normally happens when he gets startled or when someone goes to touch him without warning, and, in a few cases, for no reason anyone could discern at all. All the werewolves have noticed it, the humans had no idea until they were told, because Stiles really _is_ that good at covering.

Erica helpfully pointed out that Isaac was a little like that before they kidnapped him (not literally, it was all legal, Mom is a lawyer for chrissakes) from his abusive douche of a father. The Pack began speculating that maybe he was abused as a kid, but Mom shot the idea down, she's met Sheriff Stilinski (and they were _all_ surprised to find out that that's who Stiles' dad was), "That man has a heart of gold." She'd said, and then ordered them with Alpha-red eyes to stop prying.

It was worrisome but it wasn't any of their business and if Stiles wanted to tell them, he would.

They all, very reluctantly, agreed.

Derek thinks Laura, Phillip, and Grandad are the most in love with Stiles, everyone else is fond of him, but those three get these glints of mischief and glee and adoration in their eyes, like they and he are thick as thieves.

And it's kind of a good thing, because it means they want to be at the hospital more often, and Derek doesn't mind anything that allows him to avoid the stench of disinfectant and blood and illness and death.

Still, he'd kind of like to see Stiles again.

 _No!_ he reprimands himself, because that? That is the exact reason he should be avoiding him. Having a crush- which, yeah, he does, he'd tried to stop it but then he started having dreams filled with pale pink lips and milk-white skin and moles and eyes all heated and husky and molten clay; he kind of gave up denying it, after- on your Uncle's fiancée is the worst possible sin and he doesn't want to go to the special kind of hell, so he's going to avoid Stiles and his endearing personality and his perfect smell and his fucking eyes like the plague.

Really, he is. He swears. But he's still curious, just as curious as the rest of them, so he decides maybe, maybe he'll snoop a little.

Just a bit.

* * *

Peter is sitting on the couch in the loft, looking at him like maybe he's an insect or a germ or something, and Stiles is kind of used to it. So, he just stands there, naked, cold but not shivering, he might be shivering if his body weren't hot from pain and tingly from the numbness that comes after.

Peter looks kind of like a poisonous snake right now, and Stiles wants to google snakes with blue eyes, find out if they're normal or an anomaly, find out if they're more poisonous than regular snakes.

"Drop." Peter says, voice quiet and deadly in the dark moonlit space between them.

Stiles hits the floor with a thud, surrendering himself in a perfect kneel within seconds. The hardwood scrapes his knees, the position agitates his wounds, but he doesn't really care, it doesn't matter right now.

Peter lost an important case, he's an amalgamation of rage and impotence, of shame and psychopathy and the sick devastated need to hurt and dominate someone. Stiles understands this, knows Peter has a hard time losing, knows he needs to take it out on someone, knows it isn't healthy or safe or sane but welcomes it anyway because Stiles needs to take care of someone, because he needs the pain to void all of the emotions everyone pours into him on a daily basis, because he wants an Alpha to shut up the Omega inside of him without being Mated to anyone.

This works, so he accepts it for what it is. He likes it when Peter gets him to go deep, it isn't easy, and it doesn't happen often, because neither of them trust each other, not really, they only ever allow the darkest parts of them out when they're with each other, they keep their joys and kindnesses for the outside world, hidden away from them here, in this place where sex and blood reign as some kind of twisted metaphorical emperors. But, when it happens, when Peter gets Stiles so far down he doesn't know what's going on anymore, it feels like paint, like watercolor and room enough to breathe and fuzzy images of his Mama and swimming in the lake. Nothing touches him here, in this lonely infinite space. Nobody's emotions but his own, even if his own are cloudy and pathetic and stale, at least they belong to him.

Tonight, though, Peter takes advantage of this, he fucks him raw without opening him up, he whips him until his blood is soaking the floor beneath them, he pulls his hair until clumps of it are littering the ground, scratches, roars and seethes. Now he's turning him over and Stiles is already coming up, has to because he's starting to feel that sick shiver-chill, because Peter is seeing red, he can feel the fury so potent it's overwhelming and as Peter wraps his fingers around Stiles' throat with another violent thrust, as his eyes warp and flash unnaturally and his face becomes like that of a demon, Stiles wonders if he'll finally kill him this time.

Kind of wants to know what he'll do with his body. Grunts as the claws start to dig in, the ringing in his ears barely keeping out the insults, the horrible barbs that catch on all his insecurities and rub them raw and---

Panting, fighting, scrambling away from the person whose emotions are crashing down on him- confused and concerned, worried and scared, maybe just a little angry (not angry like Peter, it's a different flavor).

He's coughing and sputtering like he's been drowning for hours and he's just come up for air, he can't handle anyone touching him right now, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't know what's going on. How is he alive? The guy comes closer and Stiles falls on his ass- which isn't as sore as it should be, he notes- in his haste to get away. Quick and undignified he crawls backward, toward the wall, the window, clutches the curtains to himself, doesn't know if he's naked or not but wants to be covered, hidden, anyway.

He's distantly aware that he's crying, shaking, that maybe a dream can put you into subspace, subdrop, he needs to look that up.

Maybe when he calms the fuck down.

"Hey," the man says, a deep, rumbling timbre, but far away, echoey and lost somewhere, "hey, shh, it's okay, I'm not- Jesus, Stiles. No one's going to hurt you."

But Stiles can't breathe, he's trying, he really is, but his heart is thundering in his ears and Peter was choking him, _choking_ him-- then this guy is here, his emotions thrumming and- normally it'd feel invasive, but it doesn't, because he's worried and scared and just a little mad but he's blanketing it over with calm and responsibility and protectiveness, and that's, that's really nice.

Stiles still startles at the touch, but lets the man, all muscles and strength and sparkling water eyes and hair like chocolate or oak trees, smells like rain and Alpha and home and safe, so he lets him take the hand that isn't currently scratching desperately at his throat. The guy whines and gently takes that hand too, brings them both to his chest, smooth and strong, a heartbeat under cloth and skin that's steady, not like his, which is beating frenetic.

Lake-eyes, Stiles thinks, because there are green flecks in the blue that look like fish scales. Lake-eyes tells him to breathe, imposes the notion with his dramatic eyebrows, breathes deep himself, asks Stiles to follow along.

"C'mon, Stiles, breathe with me. Here, like this: In, two three four, hold it, out two three four. One more time, there you go, like that, you're doing so well. Breathe, Stiles, _breathe_."

It takes awhile, Stiles doesn't really know how long, but as his lungs learn sense his mind comes back to him, wakes up, returns to sanity, tells him what the fuck is actually going on.

That day happened awhile back, and he was just dreaming, a remembering sort of dream, but still just a dream.

Peter isn't killing him, Peter's in the hospital, they're engaged and his family knows about him now.

Lake-eyes isn't lake-eyes, he's Grumpybrows, he's Peter's nephew, he's-

"Derek," Stiles says on an exhale, finally calming down, "you're Derek. And I'm- I'm alive?"

Derek doesn't say anything for a minute, he's alarmed, more scared than he was a second ago, his protectiveness is kicking into overdrive. Stiles is a little surprised to realize that Derek is probably scared _for_ him.

"Yeah," he assures, gripping Stiles' hands in his, tight, rubbing his thumbs over the knuckles, "you're alive."

"Safe?"

"Yes."

"And Peter?" He asks, holds his breath, knows where Peter is, knows that asking this isn't going to help the situation at all but- but he really needs to know.

"He's safe, Stiles."

"No, no, I mean-" he licks his lips, breath starts coming faster again, it was such a goddamn _bad_ idea to fall asleep in the loft, he should've held off until he was home, until he was somewhere he could lock the doors and shut himself away. Fuck the fact that he was exhausted and he needed to feed the goddamn cat.

"Where?" He finishes pathetically. He has no idea if maybe he gave too much away, can feel an uptick in confusion, anger, protectiveness, worry, so much worry.

"Hospital." Derek breathes, soft, the word cracks in the air not unlike a whip and Stiles twitches, small and minute, but it's enough because Derek moves to let go of his hands, and. No. Just, no.

Derek is the first person Stiles has ever met in his entire life who smells like safety other than his Mom- even his Dad, who tries so goddamn hard, works and fights like hell for him, who he loves fiercely, doesn't make him feel-

Like the emotions of other people can't touch him.

Like Derek won't let them.

Like maybe he can do this without _needing_ the pain.

And he doesn't know how or why because they've barely spoken to each other, and Derek kind of looks like he could kill you without a second thought, but he smells like wood-smoke and forests and wet leaves and the warmth of animals pressed up close during winter time, it's so much home and _Alpha_ and kindness and safe, and it's everything he needs right now.

Besides, he's pretty sure he's in subdrop, or _something_ , because his whole body is pin-pricks and cold-sweats and shiver-shake even though he feels too warm and queasy and off, off in that way that makes him want to not think, because everything is oversensitized and his skin wants someone else's skin, the air isn't enough or it's too much.

Not to mention, the instant Derek lets go of his hands his mind erupts, the floodgates open, whatever was keeping him focused and grounded is gone and now he's- he's floating away, he's everyone, he's the lady on the side-walk who doesn't like the sound of her own clicking heels and is irritated- the man in the apartment two floors down joking, humor laughter- someone having sex- someone throwing a punch- _angerjoyshamehopeprayermeloncholydepressionlovefondnesshatredfearpainfearpainconcern._

He makes a sound, it would embarrass him if he could feel anything for himself right now, because it's like a high pitched keening cry and it's loud and needy and desperate. Then there are hands again, grabbing his, and he breathes a shaky sigh of relief when he stops feeling _everyone_ and just feels _Derek_.

So much worry, the need to protect, fear mingled with curiosity mingled with dread and helplessness.

"Stiles, Stiles! I'm here, calm down, I'm here. What do I do? What do you need?" He sounds desperate and broken, which is weird because what Stiles is feeling shouldn't affect him at all. And even though Stiles wants, needs him, he doesn't deserve this, this tender sort of care, he doesn't understand it.

But he can't comprehend anything right now, he's delirious and on edge and he just-

"Alpha." He breathes, like it's the last thing he'll ever say, and he untangles himself from the curtains to launch himself at Derek, who was crouched down low in front of him. Stiles wraps his legs around his waist, his arms around his neck, noses at the soft skin under his ear, breathes in deep greedy gulps of him and hangs on.

Because right now? In this weird fever-haze of nightmare-fear? Derek is his only lifeline, he's absolutely sure of it.

There's a shocked intake of breath, and the body beneath him stills, tense and unsure and, he can feel it, really fucking confused.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he's crying, it's all leaking out of him, he can't stop any of it, normally he's alone when shit like this happens, normally he can suffer through and survive on his own, normally it takes a day of convincing himself he's real and he still exists before he can face the world again, but he manages, he's never let anyone see this side of himself, weak and broken and disgusting, "I'll be better," he whimpers, "I'll be better, I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me, I'll be good, Alpha, I swear."

Derek's arms, so soft, tender, gentle, the kindest touch he's ever felt in his entire life, wrap around him, hold him steady, rub circles into his back, fingers curl into his hair, rub up and down his arms and his legs, touch everywhere. Derek tilts his head back, gives better access, Stiles huffs in his scent, cries whiningly into his shoulder, hiccups through it like a child. Derek's hands settle, one cupping the back of his neck and its pair continually rubbing circles on his back.

The whole time Derek is whispering quiet, soothing, comforting, reassuring things. Lots of words, very little content, but it's nice, it's calming, grounding.

"You're good, Stiles," he's saying, and it makes Stiles shiver, a better sort of shiver, Derek pauses, though, freezes for just a second and maybe Stiles did something wrong? So he's opening his mouth, ready to apologize again, but suddenly Derek feels like blooming understanding and he starts cooing, "Good boy, you're such a good boy, you did such a good job. It's okay, you're perfect, it's okay now, baby. Just rest for me, there you go, good boy. My good boy."

It's _exactly_ what he needed to hear, so he clings closer, he sighs soft, relaxes, boneless, pliable, and lets himself drift, goes under without much fuss at all.

No pain, just peace.

Sweet words and saccharine emotions, and he's floating again, but this time? This time it's not scary at all, Derek will bring him back, when it's time.

He trembles, Derek tells him to close his eyes, go back to sleep, he smiles and listens.

* * *

Derek knows about the more traditional roles some Omegas and Alphas fall into, he _knows_ okay? And he's cool with it, hell, lots of people are cool with it, there's a whole modern subculture, and he even knows some people who are like that, Dominant and Submissive.

He's really fucking glad for that right now, as soon as he gets home, he swears, he's going to hug his dad for all he's worth and thank him fiercely for that extremely awkward conversation about what an Omega sometimes needs and how to do it right and all about Subspace and Subdrop and fucking Aftercare. He's going to thank him and then ask, as calmly as he is able, what the _fuck_ it means when an Omega wakes up in Subdrop, panicking and fucking terrified.

Because that's what Stiles just did, he's absolutely certain. He didn't know at first, didn't understand, couldn't figure out what was going on. He smelled like pain and fear and nightmares, and he was running away, hiding like some wild, injured animal, then he was having a panic attack, and it didn't even seem like he knew where he was, couldn't recognize Derek until the very end, and even then he sounded, smelled, just, _off_.

But Derek knows he doesn't like to touch people, so he thought, since he seemed coherent, since he'd stopped scratching at his neck until it bled- _Jesus Christ_ \- but as soon as the contact was lost Stiles' smell became... he's never smelled anything like that before, it was like an artificial reenactment of every emotional scent out there, cloying and hollow all at once, and the sound he made? Derek won't forget that sound for the rest of his life, it'll be haunting him months from now, he's sure.

As soon as Derek had recaptured his hands, Stiles seemed to calm somewhat, but he was still... and Derek just wanted to fucking help, he's never seen anyone that fragile and small and _broken_ , breaking. It didn't seem right, it wasn't _okay_ , that it was _Stiles_ , beautiful, brave, clever, talkative, hyper, annoying but endearing Stiles, who was like that.

He doesn't know what he said exactly, but something, it flipped a switch, and suddenly he had a lapful of sobbing, terrified Omega, and for a second all he could think about was Peter, and that his Mom was gonna kill him, because he was pretty sure Stiles was _scenting_ him, and that's a big fucking deal for werewolves, but then, Gods, the things he was saying? And he was still so scared, so vulnerable, and it wasn't sexual or platonic, even, it was just, it was desperate, and he sounded like he was underwater, just a hint of slurring, of something else, and it _wasn't_ Heat.

He'd just had a Heat, and he didn't smell like that, he smelled chilled and- oh.

As soon as it clicked, as soon as he knew what he was doing, he had him. Derek had never put someone down before, but, whether it was because of the situation or something else, he didn't know, Stiles went as easy as anything. Just a little, quiet praise and the man was under, melted into him, he'd sighed and become boneless, soft, pliable in Derek's arms.

Derek hushed him, he was still hiccoughing from the way he wept before, and then told him to rest, to sleep, and he did, no hesitation, just closed his eyes and started to smell like lakes and starlight and slumber and lullabies and tears, his heartbeat going slow-steady.

Derek didn't really want to let him go, right now he just wanted to hold him forever, wrap him up in blankets and silk and feathers and protect him from every horrible monster the world had to offer. But Stiles wasn't his to hold, no matter what had just happened. So, Derek carried him to the bed, silently wondered why Stiles had been in Peter's loft asleep on the couch in the first place, and set him down as gently as he possibly could.

Stiles stirred a little but remained in a deep sleep, dreamless, too, Derek hoped faintly.

He didn't dare leave the room, but he did step back to lean against the wall, keeping an eye on his charge even as he pulled out his phone.

Laura had had a boyfriend, once, who, even though they both presented as Betas, was into stuff like this. She would know what to do, he hoped.

* * *

Stiles drifted awake slowly, blinked blearily at the world, memories coming to him through the cotton-balls in his brain. He rubbed at his eyes, which felt grimy and swollen from crying, with his fists, sitting up and looking around.

He remembered what had happened, knew he'd have to thank and apologize to Derek later, have to cover the best he could, considering. The room smelled of Peter, which wasn't very comforting, but Stiles still managed to smile softly at the memory of all that Derek had done to help him, he needed to send the man a fucking fruit basket, anyone else would've knocked him on his ass and ran away.

And maybe it was because he was so used to being left alone during and after things like this that he was so startled by Derek coming into the room with a tray of food.

"Derek," he breathes, a little roughly, wide-eyed with surprise, "you're still here?"

Derek falters for a second, his eyes and emotions going dark before he shakes his head, shakes himself out of it, and walks over, handing Stiles a tray which is piled with chocolate, crackers, fruits, honey, cream, and peanut butter. There are two water bottles, too. Stiles sets it all on his lap, looks at it with no small amount of awe.

"Is that the first time that's happened to you?" Derek asks, still in that soothing tone from before, and Stiles looks up at him, he doesn't want to be, but...

"Why are you being so kind to me?" He asks, a little suspicious despite himself, unable to trust this charitability. Derek blinks at him, and Stiles cocks his head at the hurt Derek is feeling. Hurt that's quickly replaced by an oddly familial sort of horror that Stiles, just, doesn't get at all.

Derek clenches and unclenches his fists, scowl set firmly on his face, but there's always a scowl on his face, so that doesn't help much. Stiles, for the first time, finds himself wanting to be able to read more than just emotions from a person, wants to know why Derek is suddenly feeling worried and horrified and intensely protective and dimly curious, but in a way that says he has questions he isn't entirely sure he wants the answers to.

"Why are you asking me that?" Derek still ends up inquiring, although now he feels irritated with himself. Stiles is almost amused, almost.

"No one else has ever been this kind to me before," Stiles tells him, and Derek looks, feels, like he's been physically struck. Stiles is the more curious one now.

"Not even Peter?" Derek asks, barely more than a whisper, and Stiles, he doesn't, he can't answer that. He turns to the food instead, takes the water bottle, drains the whole thing in the space of seconds.

Lots of emotions roll out of Derek, that horror boiling down to something like rage, that protectiveness mingling with desire and soaring to the forefront of everything else, there's a little bit of guilt there, too, somewhere deeper, but it's as bright as anything.

"This has happened before," Derek concludes. Not a question at all, that.

Stiles nods.

"And no one was there," More of a statement than a question, but...

"I was fine," Stiles tells him, mechanically, automatically. Man, those strawberries are really something. Most interesting strawberries Stiles has ever seen. "I'm always fine."

"Okay," Derek croaks, but the word sounds like bile, like it clawed its way out of his mouth and it cost him everything to say it at all, "Okay," he says again, steadier, but not quite right, "Okay." he repeats, swallows, moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Stiles, his hands steepled under his chin as if to keep them from shaking, eyes staring blankly at the wall.

"I'm going to stay." He tells him, no room for argument, Stiles can't quite help the joy he feels, the stunned smile that crosses his face. Derek turns to look at him with his nostrils flared, as if a smell of some kind lured his eyes away from the wall, toward Stiles, and Stiles knows there must be some kind of deranged hope on his face, because no one _ever_ stays with him.

This is the first time anyone has ever tried.

Derek looks a little bit like someone just broke his heart, surprised and scared and so, so very sad, and Stiles doesn't _understand_ , but it doesn't matter then because Derek scoots up the bed and sits beside him, tentatively takes his hand, squeezes it like he's trying for comfort.

"No one's ever held my hand before," Stiles says, staring at their entwined fingers with wonder, so quietly he wouldn't think Derek would be able to hear, but he must because he whines, low, deep in his throat, and Stiles can _feel_ how much Derek's heart is aching, although he has no idea why, but he doesn't like that Derek is making that noise, doesn't like that Derek is in pain, so he looks up at him and offers him the brightest smile he's had to offer in, well, years, he thinks, because, damn, this feels nice.

It feels frighteningly close to joy.

"Thank you," he tells him, because he has to.

Derek blinks at him, his mouth parted, he looks a little lost, a little bit like he's just seen both a ghost and a goddess. Then he swallows, holds his hand tighter, clenches his mouth shut like he's grinding his teeth. His eyes look suspiciously bright for a moment, like all that heartache wants to flood him and pour out his eyes, it makes the flecks in his irises sparkle, remind Stiles of koi fish.

Maybe his smile goes a little soft and fond.

It's a struggle, but Derek manages to give a slightly desperate, incredibly sad smile back.

Stiles grins, because it's the first time Derek has smiled at him, and it feels like a victory.

And Derek, his eyebrows furrow, those tears look a little closer now, but he just rubs his thumb against Stiles' knuckles, almost as if to distract himself.

"Eat," Derek instructs, but the word is lined with affection instead of Alpha. It's nice. Kind.

Stiles does as he's told, and for the very first time, feels inordinately happy about it.

* * *

Derek is really, really hoping he's wrong. He's sitting in the hospital chair, watching Peter as his chest goes up, then down, his heart beat, beat, beating along with the monitor which is beeping a mechanical echo.

He's the only one here right now, he'd told everyone else to leave as soon as he'd entered, and Stiles- who had told him the reason he'd been at the loft was to feed the cat, Poughkeepsie (and Derek hadn't even known Peter had had a cat), and that if he didn't get some work done soon (work he'd been neglecting in favor of holding vigil over Peter with them) he'd get into trouble, so they shouldn't expect to see him for awhile. And since Stiles wasn't here, no one pressed to stay. Although he's sure that part of it was the look on his face, the smells wafting off of him- he knows he smells like despair and Stiles, he knows that they're curious, but he can also trust them to know that he needed a minute alone, despite their meddling and their nosiness.

He's also sure that if Stiles _had_ been there they wouldn't have given two shits, they'd've told him to go wallow somewhere else, and, honestly, he's extremely thankful his family is so invested.

It'll make what he might have to do easier.

Besides, Jesus Christ, Stiles deserved, he just deserved so much more than what he was getting, what Peter was giving to him. He deserved love and care and a family.

Derek closes his eyes, feels the ghost of Stiles on his lap, smells his scent lingering on his clothes, mingled with tears and blood from the scratches he'd managed to make on his neck. He remembers the smell of joy when he'd told Stiles he'd stay, like sun-soaked sand and wind-swept willow trees, remembers the blinding smile, the _first_ actually happy smile he'd ever seen the Omega give, all because Derek had _held his hand_.

He clenches trembling fingers into fists, he prays he's wrong.

Gods, he wants to be wrong.

Trepidation, dread, and all that has happened in the past 12 hours whirls through him as he takes out his phone, texts his Mom to come sit with him, they need to talk.

 _Please_ , he begs, _please let me be wrong._

He doesn't want to hate Peter, he doesn't.

He's getting the sneaking suspicion he's going to.

* * *

Talia walks into the hospital room, getting increasingly worried, especially when she sees her son, who smells of hurt and fear and confusion- despair and agitation with the lingering scent of Stiles, though it's muddled with the salt water aroma of tears and the dilution of time- and he's just sitting there, hands clasped tightly under his chin, elbows propped up on his knees, staring at Peter with darkened, weary eyes.

She has no idea what he wants to talk with her about, but she's beginning to think it's important. Maybe life or death important.

"Derek, honey? What's going on, you asked to see me?"

"Mom, do you think Uncle Peter is a bad person?"

She blinks in surprise, he asked it quietly, tensely, like he's afraid of the answer. She wonders what brought this on. Licking her lips she looks from her son to her little brother, who she never could trust, who always leaned closer to cruel than kind. She pulls another chair from against the wall toward Derek's so she can sit next to him, Peter's bed barely a breath away from grazing their knees.

She heaves a sigh when she sits down.

"I don't think so," she answers honestly.

Derek stills, rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes like he's bracing for impact.

"Do you think it's normal," he begins, swallows thickly, opens his eyes, looks at her dead on, serious and... Protective? "Is it normal for someone to wake up from a nightmare in subdrop? For them to be utterly surprised when someone decides to stay with them and help them through it? For them to act like they're used to the occurrence or occurrences like it, and, more than that, they're used to dealing with it alone?"

"No," she answers, her stomach dropping in a sickening way, because some part of her has already registered the weird connection that Stiles and Derek inexplicably have; she _knows_ that the scent clinging to him is Stiles and tears, knows why he's asking, telling her these things.

"No, that's not normal, but it's also complicated, especially if we don't know any of the circumstances involved. Waking up from a nightmare in subdrop can happen to an Omega, or a Beta, even, with an intense hormone imbalance- or one who's just started taking suppressants if the brand doesn't affect them kindly- or one who's started any kind of hormone or sleep therapy. As for this person acting like they're more used to dealing with situations like that alone? Maybe they hide it? Maybe they _are_ used to it for whatever reason, and normally keep it to themselves, for, again, any number of reasons."

"So," he says slowly, his eyes moving back to Peter, "what you're saying is there could be a lot of extenuating circumstances and... everyone's innocent until proven guilty?"

"Yes."

"You don't think Uncle Peter would be capable of hurting Stiles, do you?"

"I... "

She can't answer that.

He looks at her, sharp, understanding, dark. Nods and stands.

"Okay." He says, and he moves his chair back, walks out of the room, shuts the door behind him.

Something about it sounds incredibly final.

Talia waits until he's out of hearing distance, leans forward and takes Peter's hand in hers: "Little brother, if you hurt that boy, there's gonna be _hell_ to pay."

She wonders what it says about him that she's even considering he _might've_.

* * *

Stiles remembers the proposal distinctly. He had never wanted to be Mated or married, that was part of the allure of being used by an Alpha who was already in a relationship. But he, more than anyone, understood Peter, honestly, he understood most people in a way no one else ever could, being what he was. But with Peter it was more than that. He knew all of the man's monsters and demons, he knew, intimately, of his darkness.

He knew he was probably one of the only people capable of accepting it.

So it didn't come as a surprise, to him, when Peter had summoned him to the Loft and he'd found the man there, feeling murder-fury, shame, bitterness, always so much rage, staring at the ring-box on the coffee table in front of him. He'd proposed to Kate and she'd denied him, and for Peter, who knew an Alpha his age needed to be married and Mated in order to really continue their ambitions? Well, he was frustrated, to say the least.

So when he'd looked up and trained ice-blue eyes on Stiles, asked through gritted teeth if Stiles would marry him instead? Stiles had barely hesitated. It's not like he was holding out for anyone, not like he'd fall in love anytime soon, not like this was something he'd survive for very long.

Some part of him wondered, even as he accepted the proposal, if a death sentence was what he _wanted_ , after so long living with this power, after so long just barely managing at survival.

So he'd said he would never bear Peter children, because he'd never trust the man with the well-being of an innocent, and accepted.

They'd fucked then, a bloody, harrowing, give and take of their bodies until Peter didn't feel so much of a need to track Kate down and rip her throat out with his teeth. After, while Peter slept and Stiles felt cold and a little trapped and raw and shaky, he'd crept downstairs and put the ring on.

There was very little ceremony. Then again, with them, as they were, there needn't be.

So when asked by a very excited Laura Hale, who'd invited him out for coffee, and was perusing some of his sketches with giddiness and pride humming through her, how Peter had proposed-

Well, he'd blanked, just a little. Managed to offer his best smile, and said, "He just asked."

It was the truth, anyway. Laura had looked at him a little strangely, then, before thankfully letting it go.

* * *

The whole gallery smelled like paint and lake-water, like starlight singing against wildberries and wind-swept willow trees. A happy and tired Stiles sort of smell.

Derek was smiling before he could help himself.

Most of the Pack had been astonished to learn that Stiles, who had told them that day they met- a month ago, now- while he was complimenting Laura's tattoos, that he was a fellow artist, was actually a pretty big deal.

Not exactly famous, but close enough. He sells his pieces under the moniker Mischief, and his paintings are considered the work of a prodigy. And seeing them now, even displayed under artificial yellows and blues as they are? Derek can understand why.

The emotions weaved through vicious lines and gentle angles and bubbly beauty and ugly violence, the chaos of purity, glorious in it's complexity and abstraction. The awe of it is more than a little breathtaking.

It's kind of an honor, he thinks, to have been invited as a family for a private viewing before all of the pieces get auctioned off and sold. It also makes the having very flexible schedule whilst also having deadlines thing make more sense. Derek can't hide the grin he feels when Laura starts bemoaning her own skill and shrieking at every single wonderous work, like she can't even help herself.

"Never took you for a fangirl!" Derek calls when she runs across the hall squealing about a painting that looks like wolves chasing after a single arrow pierced bird that seems to be just barely staying ahead of their snapping jaws with fierce determination in its eyes.

"Oh my god, oh my _god_!" She crows, "Stiles!!!!"

Derek, Granddad, and Mom are all laughing at her now, as she jumps up and down before running over to the next thing that catches her eye, like a kid in a fucking candy store. Stiles, who had been talking to his Art Dealer somewhere in the back, must hear her because he comes out hurriedly looking tired and a little worried and asking:

"Laura? What's wrong?"

Laura, who has _no_ self-control, just glomps him. They all freeze, breathe through panic crushed by ice and then a stilted-suppressed nothing before they're all overwhelmed with, surprisingly enough, the meatiest juice of berries and fruits, all star-sparkling lake water and fresh, warm clay, clean, earthy wind, surrounding them and cutting into the stench of paint.

The smell is so strong, no one he's ever met has been capable of smelling so strongly of something that it permeates the whole of the space around them so completely. And he has the sneaking suspicion that that's _joy_ , that's Stiles exhilarated, delighted, _joyful_.

It's the best fucking thing he's ever encountered, it's practically orgasmic.

And Stiles? He just makes it that much worse by throwing his head back and laughing like birdsong and windchimes while he swings Laura around like she doesn't weigh a thing.

"You like it?" He asks, all glee and insecurity.

"Of _course_ I like it! Stiles. Stiles, this is amazing!"

Stiles swings her around once more to her utter delight before setting her down and untangling them, then, with eyes unusually bright, scent still soaring, softly, he murmurs: "I'm glad you think so."

"Did you really have any doubt I would? I mean, Gods, Stiles, you're a _genius_."

He beams at her, inordinately pleased by the compliment, and Derek wonders what others must've said about his art for him to act as such. Wonders what Peter thought of it. But he won't ask, he's too worried that asking about that would ruin this moment, a moment he wants to capture in vivid technicolor and frame, because there he is, smiling at the rest of the Pack the way he smiled at Derek when Derek held his hand.

Gorgeous, blinding, pure, innocent, immaculate.

It's only the second time he's seen it, but it's the first time everyone else has, and he's sure he doesn't miss the slight frown Granddad sends his way before the rest of them smile back. Derek kind of wants to know if it's possible to smell like happy and heart-ache about something at the same time, wonders if he smells like that right now.

Because it really shouldn't be this hard to coax that kind of smile out of him. It should come easy. Derek really hates with a fervor that it doesn't.

He wanders around, content to have the smell, overwhelmingly intense as it is, and the distant talk, without actually keeping Stiles to himself. It's nice, wonderful, really, to see Stiles talking to all of the Pack together, somehow it feels like home, even more so than usual when the Pack comes together.

There's something comforting about it, he can feen his wolf settle and sigh within him, knows he's smiling, small and secret, as he looks at the paintings, as he listens, as he breathes. Can't help himself. It's that fuzzy sort of happy that goes deep, makes you want to be slow and quiet for awhile, because you _know_ everyone you love is together and around you and safe and, probably, just as happy.

He freezes, staring at a painting of something wild, some sort of demon tangled in roots and flowers and sunlight, trying at the harrowing endeavor of getting free, with a ghost just out of sight wrapping it's hands tight around his, desperately trying to pull.

 _I love him_ , he thinks, swallowing, and he lets the tears that come with that realization, the tears that take him because that painting is the biggest one here and it's titled 'Escape' and it feels like some terrified and lonely sort of scream trapped in acrylic stained canvas, he lets them come.

He stays quiet like that for a few minutes, just looking at it because he can't help himself, then he swallows, sighs, wipes the tears away and returns to the rest of them. Savors the conversation, relishes the hug Stiles offers before they leave, scents him because he's too desperate not to, studiously ignores the rest of his family until he can escape them after.

They know he'd cried, know what bad etiquette it is to scent your _Uncle's Fiancée_ , know what he smells like. He doesn't need to tell them anything.

He doesn't really want to.

* * *

"You don't like blueberries?" Derek asks one day.

They're both at the loft because, well, it's owned by their family more than Peter, though Peter is the one who lives there, and Stiles comes by most afternoons to feed and water Poughkeepsie, and clean the litter-box. On the days that he can't he usually texts Derek because, as far as he knows, Derek is there almost as often as he is.

Because Derek wants to see, to smell, to be around Stiles without his family, his Pack, to disturb them. And yes, that's selfish and it's wrong, but he doesn't care. He'll never act on how he feels, but it's not like tucking it away is going to make him stop feeling it, it'll only cause him pain.

If anyone asks, he'll tell them.

If _Stiles_ asks, he'll tell him.

He's in love, and it'll never come to fruition, but it feels as wonderful as it aches, and he's not going to ignore it for Peter's sake.

For now, though, no one has asked, which is astonishing considering how nosey the Pack _normally_ is, he kind of wonders why. But, still, no one has asked, and he's let himself be as close to Stiles as Stiles will allow.

They're only friends, they'll only ever be friends, and that kind of kills him, but, he thinks, as long as Stiles can keep smiling like that? Like he is right now? Yeah, Derek can accept it.

"No," Stiles huffs, "honestly, most berries aren't really my thing, well, except for strawberries, but, even then, only with whipped cream."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well... it's just, you smell like-"

"Wait, I smell like _blueberries_?" Stiles asks, half incredulous, half horrified, "Ew, gross! And, hey, my smell doesn't have anything to do with my taste-buds, I mean, _you_ smell like petrichor and woods and shit, I don't see you going around eating wet bark or- wait, _do_ you eat wet bark? Because that- that's so much worse than blueberries, I gotta tell you, Der."

Derek doesn't think he's ever laughed this much in his life, he's doubled over practically _wheezing_ with it, and Stiles is just grinning at him with mischief twinkling in his sun-soaked amber eyes.

Derek can't help but thinking the moniker he uses for his paintings is dead-on, though he kind of wonders why he chose it, so he asks, a little later, when his lungs decide they can start working again and his cheeks feel like they're about to fall off.

"My birth name," Stiles tells him, sitting on the floor and petting the fluffy, glossy coat of one little black cat with mismatched gold and green eyes, she's got a white tipped tail but other than that she's the cutest little shadow in the world, "I couldn't pronounce it well when I was little, so I'd end up saying mischief, and my mom went along with it, much to my dad's exasperation. It's still one of the best memories I have of her."

"Sorry," Derek says, because he doesn't know what it's like to lose a parent, but he can smell it in the air, the bittersweet grit-dry crumbling clay scent of loss that invades the wind-swept willows and twilight lake water of pleased Omega, just from talking about her.

Stiles smiles something small and a little sad at him.

"It's okay," Stiles assures, just as Poughkeepsie finds she's quite done with all of the attention and swats him before sauntering off, Stiles huffs, then shakes his head, "it was a long time ago."

They're both sitting on the hardwood with their backs resting against the couch, the coffee table moved a little ways away from them to make room. The wall in front of them is brick and time, interesting in its own right, and there's a flat screen hanging there that doesn't look like it's been turned on in forever. Derek wonders for a brief moment how Stiles would react to the proposition of them watching TV together, decides that might be pushing his luck and puts the thought away for another time.

They're sitting companionably close, not close enough in Derek's opinion, but he can feel the heat of Stiles' body, barely a breath away from his, and thinks it might be _too_ close by anyone else's standards.

He clears his throat softly. Stiles hums, questioning.

"So, your real name?"

"You're not allowed to laugh."

"I would _never_."

"Mieczysław."

Derek laughs.

Stiles punches his arm, "Ow! What're you _made_ out of?" He shrieks, cradling the offending hand.

Derek just laughs harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things you might want to know: Derek's secondary gender is _Alpha_ , but his wolf is a _Beta_. Secondary genders don't affect 'were dynamics.
> 
> I'm using the feminine form of fiancée, because in my A/B/O 'verse it's applied to Omegas as well, no matter their primary gender- also, I just think it looks prettier.
> 
> I'm meshing the A/B/O 'verse with the BDSM one because I thought it would be interesting.
> 
> Noooooooo, Malia doesn't exist, I'm horrible, I'm sorry.
> 
> New chapters every other day (I've already written most of this, I just need to edit), love you guys!


	2. Truth Is The Dull Edge Of A Rusted Knife Held By Little Red Riding Hood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is _soooooooooo_ angsty.
> 
> Also early, lol, because I love you people and I was too excited to hold off!! xoxoxoxoxo, hope you enjoy!

Stiles is staring at Peter, lying still and unconcerned by the world as he is in the hospital bed. He's standing by the man's feet, can't bring himself to sit down or get too close, he's too close to his Heat to feel comfortable in his own skin, to be able to parse through all of the emotions swirling around the hospital. He can already feel it, already knows this one is going to be bad, and he wants, god, he _wants_ someone to take him down, to put him under so he doesn't lose himself.

He wants the pain, but, he thinks, he's starting to want the kindness, too.

But that's selfish, that's too much for someone like him to ask for, and Peter would be enough, the horrible things he sometimes does would help, even. If only he were _awake_.

"Your family is beautiful," he tells him, because they _are_ , "and not shallowly, either. They are so, so _good_ , Peter. It just makes me wonder, what happened to you? What happened to you that you needed me the same way I needed you? What happened to you that twists you up and makes you so _dark_ inside?

"I can feel you, you know. I can feel everyone, my mother passed that down to me, when she died. It's horrible, sometimes, being an Empath. I think I would hate you, if I weren't. I certainly don't love you, even though I am. And I know you don't love me either, I know I sate that part of you that's always just so _angry_ , that you sate that part of me that craves nothingness and pain.

"It's always been about give and take with us, Peter, but your family? They aren't like us. They wouldn't understand if I told them that you only asked me to marry you because Kate rejected you and you didn't feel you could get any further in your career without it. They wouldn't understand if- I mean, I've always known. I've always known that if I ever bound myself to you, that you'd kill me someday. Honestly? I'd accepted it. But I have a feeling they'd never forgive you for something like that.

"And I think- I know that you need them, I know, in your own sick, twisted, Peter Hale sort of way, that you love them."

Stiles sighs, lets his hand tap the end-rail, it's as close as he can get to touching, right now, without making himself sick. His stomach is already twisting itself into knots.

"It would've been better if I'd never met them... I just wonder what I'm supposed to do now, now that I have? Heh, you're so much easier to talk to when you're not actively strangling me. I don't think I've ever even actually talked this much to you, or _at_ you, in the whole time we've known each other, until now."

Stiles bites his lip, offers the man who's going to marry him, kill him, a smile that aches, and leaves the room, texting Derek and Talia that his Heat has hit and he won't be around for awhile.

* * *

Derek wonders distantly what it means that his Rut came two weeks early, that it came around the same time as Stiles' Heat, that every sensation is like a shallow burn that cuts deep and makes him _yearn_.

His wolf is screaming _Mate, Breed, Love, Find Him, Find Him, My Mate, Stilestilestilesmatestiles_

And Derek wants, so fucking bad, and he doesn't care that he's quarantined in the Family-Heat room because this was unscheduled and unplanned and he wasn't able to get to the clinic in time. He doesn't care that the soundproofing has been shoddy and they might be able to hear him, howling, weeping, moaning, grunting, chanting for Stiles.

He couldn't stop if he wanted to.

All he wants, all he needs, is his Omega.

 _Stiles_.

* * *

Talia stares at her father in shock and wants to- to tear her little brother to fucking shreds.

"I defer to you, Alpha," he says as he watches her eyes convulse from human to wolf because right now, this? It's the ultimate test for self-control, fuck.

Normally, she thinks, he'd be amused to see her struggling to contain her wolf, but she can understand- after what he's just told her he overheard at the hospital yesterday- why the only expression he's wearing is that deep-set frown he gets when he's thinking about the longest most complicated way to lecture someone.

She remembers that expression creeping onto his jolly face a lot when she was a teenager, only there'd been private humor in his eyes, because he'd wanted to teach her a lesson, yes, but he'd also wanted to embarrass her, make her see her own folly, make it something she could look back on with laughter, later.

His eyes are carefully blank, now.

For Stiles to have so lightly said that he'd always known that Peter would kill him, what kind of horrible relationship do the two of them have? And it's surprising to learn that Stiles is an Empath, though it certainly makes some things make sense, after all, she's never seen someone so ruthlessly suppress their emotions like he does. And, maybe, it'll make telling the Omega they're Werewolves (which is something Peter never did, another red flag, along with so many others she'd tried to ignore) that much easier.

Talia knows, because being an Alpha in both senses makes the pull of old instincts harder to ignore, she knows the older, more traditional, Submissive and Dominant roles that Omegas and Alphas take, the Switch role that being a Beta can allow for. But from what her father says he overheard, it sounds like whatever Stiles and Peter have is much, much more dangerous than that.

And Derek knew. Derek figured it out the moment he saw Stiles crawl out of a nightmare in subdrop fully expecting to have to deal with it alone. But she, his Mother, the Alpha, and apparently a complete and utter fool, had told him it might be something else, that they couldn't know.

Peter is still innocent until proven guilty, and this isn't proof, not quite yet, she tries to remind herself as she clasps shaking hands in her lap.

She jerks when she hears the roar, deafening even through soundproofed walls, a call like any 'were would make... for their _Mate_.

And that's her precious boy down there, whining, begging, screaming for Stiles.

She squeezes her eyes shut tight and wonders how the hell this happened and what the fuck she's supposed to do now, because everything has gotten ten times more complicated.

Her father hums, thoughtful.

"You must've known," he says in the silence that pervades the call, "Laura has told me how they reacted to each other, upon sight and scent. You were the same, you know, with Arlow."

Talia nods, eyes still shut tight, jaw clamped so hard it's creaking, because she was.

But Arlow hadn't been engaged to, possibly _abused_ by, one of her family members.

"This is so fucked up," she breathes.

"Language," he chides, deadpan.

* * *

Stiles still smells vaguely of Heat, warm, silky-sweet willow-sap against twilight-lakes and fields of wildberries. There's something heavier about it this time, though, more condensed, compelling. Derek wonders if it's because he just got through his Rut, or if it would've felt the same on any other day.

"Hey," he greets as Stiles enters the hospital room, heartbeat fast as always, but steady. Stiles looks at him blankly for a few moments before he seems to blink himself out of it.

"Yeah," Stiles swallows, it sounds mildly ludicrous in contrast to all the machinery and the relative quiet around them, "hi."

He walks over to the end of the bed, puts a hand against the end-rail, taps it twice like another, different sort of greeting. It seems intimate, somehow, Stiles doing that with his eyes only for Peter. Derek grits his teeth against the lump in his throat, the sudden clench in his chest.

He feels wrung out and wired at the same time, restless and too exhausted to do anything about it.

"Der," Stiles murmurs, and it sounds a little pained, and then his scent hurtles into that artificial synthetic pandemonium it was that day, weeks ago now, when he'd woken up from that nightmare.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, suddenly _extremely_ concerned because Stiles' hand is wrapping around the end-rail in a white-knuckled grip and he looks for all the world like he's gonna pass out, "What's wrong?"

He's already standing, walking tentatively over, having no idea what the _fuck_ is going on. So, when Stiles' other hand stretches out, blindly searching for him, he's by the other man's side in seconds, letting Stiles hold his hand so tightly his bones are creaking, he's pretty sure.

"Stiles?" Derek whispers, worried, his smell like fine-spun thread, but nothing like _his_ and it's making bile rise in the back of Derek's throat.

"Der," Stiles whimpers as his knees give, Derek catches him without even hesitating, holding him tight so he doesn't fall. Stiles whines pitifully, choking back a sob as he wrenches his hand away from the end-rail, "home. Take me home."

"Okay," Derek breathes, a little stunned, getting more and more terrified by the moment. Stiles lets go of his hand long enough to wrap his arms around Derek's neck, still whimpering low and quiet in the back of his throat, "Okay."

Derek makes the executive decision to slide an arm around Stiles' back, another under his knees, and be made fun of for the bridal hold later. He has no idea _what's_ going on, but he'll be damned if he doesn't help the man in his arms. All he wants is the smell of wildberries and wind-swept willows back. All he wants is for Stiles to be _okay_.

* * *

Derek... didn't want to take him to the loft, and he didn't want to take him to the home he usually shares with his family, and he doesn't even _know_ where Stiles lives; so he takes him to the apartment he has above the gym, even though it's dusty and stagnant-stale, there's a bed, a couch, a fireplace, and a fully stocked kitchen.

He barely uses it, but it is his, however minimalist and filled with mothballs that are trying their very best to make him sneeze. He's suddenly very glad that he never actually managed to lease it out for someone to rent, not that many people would want to live in a place above a gym, a gym that's normally filled with rowdy, sweaty people, learning how to box with self-defense classes on Tuesday and actual matches hosted every other month.

Everyone's either in highschool or a knothead (how that happened he still doesn't know).

Derek carefully sets Stiles, who still smells all kinds of wrong, on the bed, which is in the middle of an alcove that serves as a bedroom. It's nice, the open-floor architecture of this place, it's a nice contrast to the packed in clusterfuck completely lacking in privacy let alone room to breathe that is home. He's about to disentangle them, because Stiles is half-dozing and rest might be all he needs, but Stiles starts that high pitched keening cry in the back of his throat, the one that makes it sound like he's about ten seconds away from dying, the one that has haunted Derek ever since the first time he fucking heard it.

In Derek's head memories flash, of the first time this happened, it happened while he was trying to let go and only eased when the contact came back again, of the awe and wonder Stiles had at him just _staying_ , holding his hand, at the far-off look he gets sometimes when he thinks no one is looking, of paintings that were all tinged with meloncholy, with lonely, of how every act of kindness seems to throw him, to take him off guard.

Within the blink of an eye, Derek is with him on the bed, curled up all around him, one hand wrapped around is back and the other cradling his head, drawing him as close as he possibly can, saying, before he can even really stop himself:

"It's okay, baby, it's okay. I'm here, shh, I've got you, baby. Good boy, I've got you, shh..."

And just like that, Stiles settles. There are still tears streaming down his face, there have been ever since they left the hospital, but he's not wailing like he was a second ago anymore, and he's cuddling up into Derek like there's nothing for it, arms trapped between their chests, snuffling into Derek's throat, taking deep, calming breaths.

Derek keeps on cooing at him, hushing him and holding him, tucking Stiles' head under his chin to give him better access, since his scent seems to be helping. He runs fingers through curly brown hair, he prays, and he waits.

* * *

As Stiles sleeps the cacophony of chemicals slowly whirls, twists, and shifts into a heavy, rich, thick, salt-clay smell that's heady and meaty and not exactly his resting scent, but still _him_. Derek breathes a small sigh of relief and keeps carding his fingers through the Omegas soft hair.

It's another thirty minutes before Stiles is waking up, his scent finally returning to wildberries and starlight and lake-water, the clay still a gritty, muted undertone.

"Stiles," Derek murmurs into his hair, not daring to let him go yet, not wanting to let him go at all, but knowing he will have to eventually. He's not allowed this, it was just extraordinary circumstances, but goddamn if he isn't going to savor it for as long as he can.

"Der," Stiles breathes, swallows with a dry sort of click, "sorry. That was... embarrassing. I usually have better control than that."

The last part is said under his breath, almost to himself, but Derek doesn't let it go, can't, has to know what caused this. So he pulls back, just a little, taking the fingers buried in Stiles' hair and using them to gently tilt the man's face up so he can see those watery milk-honey eyes.

"Better control with what, Stiles?"

Stiles' bottom lip trembles and he shakes his head but he doesn't look away. Derek gently drags the pad of his thumb across the apple of his cheek.

" _Please,_ baby, this is the second time. I need to know what's going on."

Stiles sighs softly at the appellation, eyes fluttering shut, he leans into Derek's touch while Derek continues to gently stroke his cheek. And maybe Derek is taking this too far, calling him baby even when he doesn't necessarily need it, but he can't stop himself. Not now. Not when the only space between them is a breath, the dark-still of this dusty room, and whatever secret Stiles is keeping.

"I can-" Stiles chokes a little on the words, eyes staying firmly shut, eyebrows furrowing, "I never mean to. You have to know that, I never, I never _mean_ to. I don't have any control over it."

"Okay," Derek tells him, and he's not finished but Stiles interrupts him with a little hiccupped laugh.

"You're always saying that, Der." Stiles tells him, softly, sniffling and daring to open his eyes again even as new tears start to stream down his cheeks, "You're always telling me okay. That it's going to _be_ okay."

Stiles leans in a little, their noses brushing together, the smell of tears and acid-sweet longing and harsh-grit desperate sadness. It's so intimate, and his scent so heavy, Derek has to stifle a whine.

"Sometimes I think I might even believe you."

Derek can't handle the look in the Omegas' eyes, like heartbreak and shattered hope and a jaded sort of war-weary resignation. He feels a breath shudder out of him, wants to cry, can feel the burn of it in his eyes, but somehow doesn't feel like it would be right.

And then Stiles bridges the last of the gap between them, slots salty-wet lips against his, and Derek knows, he _knows_ this isn't right, that he should stop him, that Stiles is probably just trying to distract him with this, and it feels _cruel_.

It feels like all of his dark jagged edges compounding in on this moment, shredding him apart, eviscerating him even as he closes his eyes, even as he _wants_ , even as he licks into a mouth that opens easily for him.

That probably opened easily for Peter.

And he hates himself for this, he feels gutted and hollow and it's worse, it's so much worse because he knows that it doesn't _mean anything_.

Not to Stiles.

Yet he chases the taste of sunlight and cherries and toffee, he begs into it, cups the still wet cheek and pulls Stiles in, makes it deeper. He explores all the crevices, gums, teeth, tongue, ridges and edges and soft and bite. He swallows Stiles' moan, desperate, hungry for this, because he loves him, he _loves_ him and it hurts and he'll never forgive himself for this.

He'll never have this, as painful as it is, ever again.

 _Stiles_ will never forgive him for this.

He wants to memorize it, because it's going to be gone soon.

And he hates it, as much as he craves it, because it feels like a sin as much as a benediction. Because this _is_ wrong. Because Stiles is going to marry and Mate his Uncle and this beautiful bittersweet kiss will never mean the same thing to Stiles as it does to Derek.

"Stop," Derek manages to rasp, pulling away even as Stiles whines out what could be a plea, something that sounds like _more_ , but Derek uses the hand on his cheek to keep him back. To keep Stiles from drawing Derek back in.

Derek keeps his eyes closed, can't bear to open them right now, swallows, breathes deep, lets wind-swept willow trees and lake-sea mingling with his own wet-leaves petrichor calm him down. He swallows again, licks his lips, and opens his eyes.

Stiles is watching him with a very, very sad smile, and there's something in his eyes, vast and warm, and it's for _him_. Derek feels his breath hitch, feels himself wanting to drown in it, or kiss it away, or just stop time so he can live in them, in that honey-syrup, forever.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, and Derek knows he means it, but it isn't his fault. Or at least, the fault lies with both of them. Either way, for all that it broke his heart, he doesn't want Stiles to apologize for that kiss, because at least he got to have it at all.

"It's okay," Derek tells him, and Stiles laughs, a wet, shivering, small, secret thing.

It's simultaneously the most gorgeous and agonizing sound Derek has ever heard.

"And... You don't have to tell me. Whatever it is, until you feel like you _can_ , you don't need to say anything. Just- promise me you'll tell me if it happens again? I don't want- you shouldn't have to go through something like that alone."

Stiles sniffs, takes Derek's face in his hands and kisses his temple, a quiet, comforting thing.

"Derek Hale, you are the very best of us, aren't you?"

* * *

Stiles takes a shower, a little after, accepts a change of clothes with ease, and he looks so adorable in Derek's clothes, which are just the slightest bit baggy on him, that it takes every ounce of self-restraint and the memory of all the self-hatred the first one wrought not to kiss him again.

Stiles is lithe, muscular in a skater-runner sort of way instead of the boxers Derek is used to, and his skin is so light it's practically luminescent, peppered with freckles and moles. All of this makes Derek's clothes, which are all dark and meant for a broader body, different kind of musculature, ride low in all of the right places and offer a distracting, lascivious kind of contrast.

The Omega accepts food, keeping it light because his Heat _had_ only just passed- just crackers, apple slices, and iced tea- before deciding he best return home. His art dealer is excited and a little greedy, apparently, after the gallery had done so well. Wants to have new pieces to sell.

Derek offers him a ride for several reasons: because he doesn't know where Stiles lives, and he ought to, so he can find him if this happens again; because whatever these episodes are, they don't seem to give him the presence of mind to _talk_ , let alone go spouting off coordinates; because Derek drove Stiles to the gym and it's late enough that driving him to the hospital where he can pick up his motorcycle instead of back home seems a little ridiculous, besides, after what just happened? Operating a motorcycle might not be the best idea (and somehow, knowing Stiles drives a _motorcycle_ of all things wasn't as surprising as it should've been, like, Stiles is the type of person who ruthlessly suppresses, and maybe doing exhilarating allows him to forget himself long enough that he doesn't _have_ to, helps him think. It makes sense, in its own weird way, Derek thinks).

And then there's the simple point of fact that Derek _wants_ to know where Stiles lives, though he doesn't voice that particular incentive out loud. He does, however, install an app on Stiles' phone that will send him an SOS text if a particular button is pressed. He's aware that Stiles never actually promised to contact him if/when it happened again, but Derek doesn't care, if there's a chance Stiles will need him, Derek wants to be able to know and help as easily and as soon as possible.

Stiles takes it all with a begrudging sort of fondness that makes him smell like blackberries and daisies.

The house looks old, covered in ivy and with weeds and flowers all around, it's not necessarily decrepit, but it looks more abandoned than well kept, and it seems to be stranded a little ways out of town, closer to the Preserve than civilization. Pale blue paint peeks out from under the vines and weeds that are trying to overtake the whole house, a dark slate roof, a chimney, and kindness. For all that it looks messy and reckless and as much a part of the earth as any of the trees around it, it _exudes_ the aura of _home_.

There's a rocking chair on the front porch and an easel with its feet buried in the weeds and flowers and long strands of yellowed grass in the front yard. It's as wild as it is tame. And just a little lonely, that big house for just one person. It suits Stiles perfectly.

Stiles kisses him on the cheek before he goes, and Derek offers him a smile that aches, watches to make sure he gets in alright, then drives away.

* * *

He can sense it, a kind of sickly-sweet, _knowing secrets I shouldn't and never wanted to_ sort of feeling, along with a kind of probing, questioning being sent his way, and a tired, suppressed, _rage_ that Stiles is fairly certain is directed at Peter.

Derek had invited him- because, apparently, Cora had wanted him there- to Cora's birthday party. Stiles has to admit that the Hales, with their huge family, all interconnected with love and pleasure and intimate knowledge of each other, have _awesome_ parties, even when one of the participants is an Empath.

Normally he'd avoid big to-dos like this, but he couldn't quite refuse, not when it was Cora, not when it was _Derek_ asking him to come. And it was actually pretty great, so much better than he thought it would be, everyone around him is suitably happy, and tossing affection around like it's nothing, until being in the house with them all feels like being in a giant bear hug, group hug, warm puppy pile.

But he can feel Saul, Derek's Granddad, Peter and Talia's father, this niggling wondering, wandering presence in the back of his mind, and it's like being doused in ice water. Chills, bone-deep, because he knows, he _knows_.

And there's only one possible way he _could_.

"You overheard me," Stiles half-heartedly accuses when he finally manages to corner Saul- alone- in the Hale library, which is in the basement and is two stories underground and is cozy and amazing and Stiles would totally be drooling over it all if he weren't currently terrified and anxious in equal measure.

Saul sits in one of the big, plush sofa-chairs and motions for him to sit in another one that's adjacent his. Stiles twitches, doesn't comply, can feel the wonderful food he'd partaken in whirling in his gut. Holds his breath. Saul, realizing he's not going to sit down, emotions _contemplativeinterestedsmugfuriousatmyson_ , nods curtly.

Stiles leans against the wall for support, since his knees desperately want to give way, and takes as deep a breath as he can manage, holds it for a moment before he allows himself to speak.

"That's not very cool, dude, it's like eavesdropping on a confessional."

"When did you start dating my son?" Saul asks him, and Stiles looks up sharply, because, what?

"Really? That's you're takeaway? Not the- not _me_ being-"

"I'm a Werewolf," he explains, "so you being another supernatural creature really makes no difference to me, although you're very clever, very good at hiding. I should've realized sooner."

"A were... wolf?" Stiles asks, incredulously.

And then Saul does something, something that shifts his whole face, his hands growing claws, his eyes flashing gold, his face furry and pronounced, mouth full of fangs. Stiles has to bite back a scream, has to shove down his terror and put it in a box. Not because of what Saul is, or the revelation. He knows Saul would never hurt him, kindly man he is, for all his ferocity, he protects those he cares for, he's the same guy who employed Stiles to help him prank several of is kids and grandkids because he's just as clever and impish as Stiles is.

But Stiles has seen this before, has seen that change like a hallucination, he'd honestly thought it _was_ \- just his subconscious forcing a demonic impression while Stiles was in a vulnerable frame of mind, but he remembers the marks he'd wake up with, the scars he still has. Bitten and scratched, like Peter was some sort of wild animal.

Stiles instinctively shoves the panic, his emotion, _hard_ , away, away, away, until he can feel nothing but cold, until he can't feel himself at all, until he's shrouded in nothing, a barrier between him and the people upstairs _softwarmcontentelatedhappyfamilytogetherness_ and something peculiar he's always registered with the Hales but never clicked until now: _Pack_. A clotting between him and Saul, who seems to actually be reeling back where he was trying to reach out before _concernworryfamilialaffectionconfusion_.

"Blue eyes," Stiles finds himself asking, his voice sounds so hollow, distant, as dark and small as he is right now, "what do blue eyes mean?"

"Peter. You've seen Peter shift before?"

"Yes."

"Then how did you not know? What we are?"

Stiles swallows convulsively. He feels like he's going to be sick, he lets the wall take him, guide him down to the floor, fuck, he can't breathe.

"I thought," Stiles lets out a laugh, bitter and self-deprecating, he's so fucking stupid.

"What did he do to you, Stiles?" Saul's voice is unexpectedly soft, Stiles opens his eyes, surprised to find that he'd closed them, Saul looks human again, and that helps, a little. Stiles still feels like retching, like blacking out, he's so fucking dizzy.

"What I needed," Stiles tells him, and it's not a lie, "then, what he needed."

"And what did you need?"

"I still need it," Stiles says, "Peter being comatose doesn't change-"

Stiles stumbles over his words, can't explain it, not really, how he loses himself the way he does, how going under _helps_ him. The pain, the need, it works, Peter just- sometimes, he takes advantage. Physically, mentally, biologically (in more ways than one, he realizes, now). But Stiles had accepted that, accepted giving Peter an outlet in order to gain one of his own.

"What you need. It's because you're an Empath?"

"Sometimes."

"And what does my son need, Stiles, that you were so sure he'd kill you?"

Stiles, his eyes trained on the floor, his knees tucked under his chin, his arms lax on either side of him, hands fisting at the dark red, clean-soft, fluffier than should be possible carpet, doesn't answer for a long moment.

Saul is a vat of infinite patience, but the longer Stiles remains quiet, the more furious he becomes.

"Don't hate him," Stiles says, very quietly, after a long, tense few minutes of silence.

"You don't love him, I heard you say such yourself, and he's _hurt_ you Stiles. If I didn't know it before, I definitely know it now. So why are you still trying to protect him?"

"Because he's in pain," Stiles answers truthfully, and Saul just takes a very deep breath, holds it, and lets it go with a bone-weary sigh.

"He's my son," Saul whispers, and neither of them says anything else for a long, long time.

* * *

Derek is half expecting it to never come, it's been a week and a half since he drove Stiles home, and there've been no SOS sorts of texts on his phone. He's half relieved, half terrified, because this could either mean it was a two-time thing, or a thing that happens relatively soon after his Heat (hey, it might really be a hormone imbalance), or... maybe it's still happening, in places Derek can't see, and Stiles is still forcing himself to go through it alone.

But it does come, the day after Cora's birthday party, and Derek _had_ noticed Stiles seeming a little off before he left, but Stiles had said he was fine and Derek hadn't pushed.

He's worried, that he won't get there in time, what state Stiles will be in when he _does_ get there, and he's honored that Stiles trusted him enough, that Stiles did, essentially, ask him to come when he was in need. Derek tries to temper his wolf- howling in glee, _protectmatemineprovide_ \- with the fact that Stiles is in _trouble_ , this isn't something to be _happy_ about.

He parks in the gravel driveway, right alongside Stiles' motorcycle, it's the first time he's honestly gotten the chance to really _see_ it, but he doesn't have time right now, so he ignores it and jogs toward the house, opens the unlocked door without even really thinking about it, and. It smells like every aspect of Stiles Derek has ever scented, mixed with watercolors and acrylic and oils and canvas, with home and love and pencil-led and charcoal, with past Heats and steamed meat.

Derek has to just breathe for a moment, it's so fucking overwhelming, so primally seductive, like a punch to the gut and an aphrodisiac. Pastel walls and art supplies and clutter and mahogany floors, a small kitchen with herbs all hung from its ceiling, like growing and life and food. Derek closes his eyes, listens for the hummingbird heart that's coming from upstairs, and races toward it.

The bedroom on the second floor is honestly beautiful, it captures the sun perfectly, softened by white-cotton curtains, is all yellows and blues and greens and reds, there's a forest painted along the walls and warm, earthy tones in the furniture. A canopy bed with a sandalwood and cherrywood frame, different types of cloth, all colorful and sheer, draping over top, pooling down around it.

Stiles isn't in the bed, though, he's just sitting there, in the corner, in the darkest possible place, and he smells like chemicals again, like too much but not enough, like he isn't _himself_ in the most literal sense. Derek rushes over to him, crouches low, takes the hands, fingers being chewed on relentlessly, away from his mouth.

"Stiles," he sighs, knocking their foreheads together.

"Der," Stiles murmurs, and in slow, small movements, like his body is so, so heavy, he wraps his arms around Derek's neck and _breathes_ , "Take me Down, Der, put me Under, I need- I can't, please, please. Derek, _please_."

Derek knows what Stiles is asking for, a part of him might even understand, but he's never done that before, with _anyone_. His instincts have given him the pull before, the want for something like that, and he supposes he could let them take over, figure it out if it's truly what Stiles needs right now, but...

"I'm not your Alpha, Stiles."

"Der," Stiles whimpers, "Alpha, Der."

Derek's wolf roars within him, but he forces himself to calm. Stiles is desperate. Derek wonders if he would've given himself up like this willingly for anyone at this point, wonders what's going on with him that he needs it this _bad_. Is intensely grateful that it was _him_ , not anyone else, however selfish that may be.

Even though he thinks, maybe, when his Uncle wakes up it won't be him at all.

"Okay," Derek says, "it'll be okay, baby, I've got you. I've got you, shh."

Stiles sighs a little but he's still heaving desperate, hitched breaths and Derek can smell the salt of unshed tears as he picks the man up and carries him, gently, to the bed. He already knows he can't leave him, knows that as soon as touch has been established Stiles will only get worse if Derek tries to take it away. Instead, deciding he'll have to work with what he has on hand without losing contact, and that these are pretty extreme circumstances, he asks:

"What do you need, baby, what puts you Under?"

"Pain."

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, has them sitting with Stiles in his lap, arms still around his neck. He takes in a shaky breath.

"I don't know if I can hurt you, baby," he whispers against Stiles' ear. Stiles shivers, that gross, cloying scent that makes him bristle increases and Derek can _hear_ Stiles gritting his teeth as he makes an anguished sound in the back of his throat. Derek sighs, puts his forehead on Stiles' shoulder as he rocks them a little. Stiles is already _in_ pain.

And Derek? He really fucking hates that.

All of his instincts are screaming to _protectprotectmatemine_.

So he slides his hands down Stiles' back, gulps down the anxiety, self-hatred, worry, fear, and slips his hands underneath his shirt. He feels skin, muscle, the knobs of his spine, the length of his ribs, the wing of his shoulder blades. He marvels in it for a moment, and then _pulls_ the pain into him, feels, first, the black veins spreading, winding up his arms, and then-

The shock of it makes him reel, want to scream, writhe in that agony, sharp, slicing, shredding, rich and raw and untempered as blood, as the roots of the oldest trees. It feels like Death, like Life, like too fucking much, and it _hurts_ , the pain is so searing he can't even breathe for the first few minutes.

Everything blacks out, at one point, while he's trying to get used to it, but he holds on, whether out of sheer force of will or the exceptionally strong need to help Stiles, or perhaps the love he bears for the Omega, he holds on. Keeps draining the pain. Blinks spots out of his vision, hears, distantly, harsh panting gasps, dark, deep growls, high, thready cries.

"If you want me to stop," he manages to grit out, because he knows this isn't enough, he can feel it, like the pain he drains is just looping back, no matter how much he takes, "will you be able to say...?"

Stiles has his head thrown back, Derek can feel the way it's contorting his neck from where his face is hidden, breathing in sweat and pain and chemicals, "Red," Stiles chokes out, "I'll say Red."

Derek can't ask for more, not right now, it's sensory-overload, practically physical torture, he can't fathom words, can't get past anything but the perpetual pain. It's visceral, the need to get it out, to shred it the way it's shredding them. He feels claws bleeding out over dull fingernails, presses the tips of them into Stiles' back very carefully.

Stiles moans, convulses, curls in against him as Derek drags his claws down. Shallow scratches that make tiny pebbles of blood bubble up, make a sickly-sweet iron-metal aroma float dimly into the air. Stiles wraps his legs and arms around Derek's back, shoves his nose under Derek's ear and whines something small, fragile.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay, shh. Can you take a deep breath for me?"

It takes a few shuddering attempts, but when Stiles finally manages Derek croons, "Good boy," into his neck before biting down, right on the pulse point, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. Stiles rocks into him with a sweet, dangerously sensual sound. Derek swallows, laving at the bite before he rakes his fingertips up the scratches he made, pressing against the small, slick trails of blood, pushing until more comes up.

Stiles makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat as he arches into it, Derek feels breathless, heady, powerful and broken apart all at once. He scratches his nails down again, shallow-small, barely there, a different angle this time. Stiles cries out, his hands curling into fists in Derek's shirt as his hips grind down, slow, lascivious. Derek groans against his throat, feels himself, unthinking, bucking up into the contact.

It feels like madness, fever-pitch, heat crazy, but there's none of that haze, he knows _exactly_ what he's doing, can feel and smell every trembling, twitching inch of Stiles against him. He knows this is wrong.

So he does the only thing he can do, he shifts them around, has Stiles laying face-down on the bed in a micro-second, because he _can't_ let it go further than it already has. Stiles makes a terrible distressed noise and Derek responds instantly.

He doesn't know what makes him do it exactly, a feeling, a drive, instinct, need, want, but he wraps a hand around Stiles' throat, gentle, tender, and he stills almost immediately, goes shock-quiet.

"It's okay," Derek assures in his ear, leaning over him, his hand on Stiles' throat the only contact they have now, "it'll be okay, baby. Are you still with me?"

Stiles whimpers, a wet, wretched sounding thing, but he turns his head to the side on the pillow, staring over his shoulder with those ridiculously wide amber eyes, the light in them already a little fuzzy, blinks slow, and nods.

Derek presses his other palm to the small of Stiles' back, adds the slightest hint of pressure to the scratches already there, Stiles makes a tremulous noise, eyes fluttering shut.

"Take a deep breath for me, baby," Stiles does, a big gulp of air, "hold it, like that, and exhale, there you are, that's my good boy. You're doing so well, I'm so, so proud of you baby."

Stiles shivers, adam's apple against the hand collaring his throat, never adding pressure, just there. Derek rubs the pad of his thumb against the bruise he made there and Stiles keens, his hips shuddering down, grinding his cock flush against the mattress. Derek swallows, clears his throat softly, and thanks every God of self-control he knows as he slips his other hand under Stiles' shirt again, rakes his claws up, just the slightest bit deeper this time. Stiles groans, fucks himself down, writhes and keens.

"Alpha," Stiles sounds wrecked, strangled, soft and sweet as the honey in his eyes, "Alpha, _please_."

"Fuck," Derek growls, takes his hand out from underneath Stiles' shirt, wraps his arm around his belly and palms his dick, hard and hot and _there_. Stiles gasps, loud and wet and absolutely pornographic before rutting gratefully against his hand, Derek swallows, kneads against Stiles' dick, adds friction and pressure as his own dick gets painfully hard in his jeans.

"Deep breath, baby," he rasps as Stiles juts his hips wantonly and the smell of his slick, warm, fresh, sticky willow-sap, wafts around them thick and addicting. Stiles gasps in a shuddering moaning breath, presses down _hard_ against Derek's hand.

"Hold it, keep it, just like that, good boy. You're doing, _Jesus, baby_ , so fucking well. Let it out now, that's it, my good boy, there you are, that's perfect. You're doing so, so well, I'm so proud of you. Good boy, my very good boy."

Stiles trembles, convulses, hips twitching as he comes, hot, sweet, wet, dampening the crotch of the pants between them, slick still coating his thighs. Derek slowly removes the hand he had collared around the Omega's throat, moves its pair to his hip and leans down to kiss, reverently, the bite-bruise, the mark, he made on the man beneath him.

He smells _right_ , now, more than right, he smells _clear_ , willow-sweet, orgasm-salt, starlight reflecting languid in mirror-still lake-water, _birdsong_ , iron-metal rich blood, with Derek's own petrichor musk clinging, blending, bleeding into the edges. There's no sign of the bitter tang of wildberries, or the earth-dry grit of clay, but somehow, that's so much fucking better. He smells, he looks, he _is_ an _awe_ like this.

"So beautiful," Derek murmurs against Stiles' pulse point, and Stiles, who's supple and pliant and noodle-loose, completely relaxed, hums contentedly with a little, private smile gracing his lips.

"You were so good for me, baby... Where are you right now, can you tell me?"

"I'm swimming, Der, with the stars, in the Milkyway. S'good, so good."

Stiles opens his eyes, and they're brighter than Derek's ever seen them, laughter and hope and affection all living, breathing, sun-soaked things twinkling serenely there, the edges crinkle when he beams, hopeful, innocent, childish-pure.

"You've got _koi_ in your eyes, Der," Stiles tells him with no small amount of delicate wonder, "they're swimming, too."

Derek feels his breath hitch, kind of wants to cry, this submissive side, joyful, trusting, quiet and small, but absolutely gorgeous. Derek kisses him, slow and deep before he can overthink it, second guess it.

"You're so pretty, baby," he breathes against spit-swollen lips when he finally pulls back to breathe. Stiles presses his fingertips to Derek's lips and offers candied giggles to the air between them.

"Your kisses make me _fly_ , Der, you taste just like clouds do, soft n' kinder than 'nythin'."

Derek smiles at him, kisses his fingertips and says, "Do you want to rest, now, baby? While I clean you up?"

"Mmm," Stiles grins, and just like that, his eyes slip closed, and he falls into a deep, restful sleep as a milky lullaby-twilight scent tangles with willow-trees and lake-water and rain-sodden leaves and muddy-forests all around them.

Nudity, for werewolves, isn't as shameful or considered as it is for humans. Still, what he just did with Stiles, what he ended up doing to himself in the bathroom, after, and with Stiles himself being human, and with- with _everything else about this fucked up situation_ , it doesn't seem right, stripping him while he's sleeping, even if it is only to clean him up.

Fuck it, add it to all of the other horrible not-right things he's done today.

So he finds a bowl, fills it with cool water, finds a washcloth and a few towels, sets the bowl and washcloth on the nightstand, picks up the man he loves, in all of his prone glory, sets a towel underneath him, sets him back down, and proceeds to strip him out of his sweaty come-soiled clothes.

What he sees, when he has Stiles' prone, vulnerable form bare to him and all the world? It makes him _sick_ with horror. Stiles is twenty-one, Derek knows now, though he's never divulged how long he and Peter were together. But maybe the scars do.

Criss-crossing lacerations on his back, taser burns, cigarette burns, all over his thighs, months' old bruises that were so bad they've yet to heal. Deep cuts along his feet and half-moon claw piercings along his hips. Derek traces the scars, traces the kitten scratches he'd left that are all already mostly scabbed over.

He wonders if Stiles _asked_ for these scars, if he begged Peter, or maybe even someone else, to put him Under, to use pain. Part of him hopes that's all it is, but he knows, he knows from the way Stiles screams through paintings of majesty, from the way he startles away from touch, from the way he _said_ he needed pain but what _really_ put him Down, so far Down, was just telling him to breathe.

Derek swallows. It's a nervous tick, he's realizing, to swallow down tears and heartache, lust and bittersweet love. He does it until his tongue feels thick and useless, until his jaw clicks, until his mouth is too dry.

His Mom does it, too. He wonders if he got it from her.

As gently as he can, pressing kisses to the least intimate scars along the way, and to the scratches he'd added himself, he cleans Stiles of sweat and slick and blood and come. Stiles dozes in and out the whole time, giggling like church-bells when Derek washes and kisses his feet, murmuring about something vaguely adorable, asking for peanut butter banana sandwiches while Derek was washing his hands.

After he's done cleaning him he switches out the towels underneath him and goes to replace everything, coming back with water, iced tea, a bowl of granola, honey, and, well, peanut butter banana sandwiches, because how do you ignore a request like that?

He sits Stiles up against him and helps him eat what he can while holding his hand, which Stiles giggles at, saying: "You're holding my hand, again, Der! You always hold my hand, it makes me feel _safe_ , did you know that? Last person held my hand was Mama. Now it's just you. I'm so _happy_ when you hold my hand, Der."

Derek smiles at him, then, kisses his temple and promises he won't let go, even though he knows it's a promise he's going to have to break.

* * *

Stiles sleeps for almost a whole day, and Derek feels terribly thankful that his gym can mostly be sustained without him. When he wakes up he's still Under, his scent still crisp-clear subspace delicacy, but he's not as far Down as he was when he went to sleep, and he seems mostly alright now.

He waits until after Laura's called twice and Cora's texted at least eighteen times, after good morning cuddles and breakfast, to sit him down on the sofa and kneel low in front of him, petting his knees and looking into his eyes.

"I need you to come up for me, now, baby, come back to me, Stiles, okay?"

That simple, it takes a few more blinks and a few more words, but just like that, as easy as breathing, he comes up. Wildberries and clay undercurrent his scent, muddling it some, but it's still so, so beautiful.

Derek smiles worriedly at him, a little heartbroken, a little terrified by what they did, in the light of day. Stiles takes a deep breath holds it for exactly four seconds before looking down at him with aware, cognizant eyes, all burnt-honey haunted. He hadn't realized just how much darkness was in them until he'd seen them _without_ it.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, tentatively.

Stiles just stares at him for a few long moments, face completely blank. Derek's really starting to freak out about it internally when, inexplicably, he asks in a frightfully small voice:

"Is that what it's supposed to be like?"

Derek's brow furrows, that... wasn't the question he'd been expecting. If anything, he'd been expecting anger, shame, maybe even resentment, because Derek definitely took it too far.

"What do you mean?"

"It felt... _good_. _I_ felt good." Stiles breathes, like it's a wonder, like it's something new and unbelievable and confusing.

Derek freezes. Swallows.

"It... doesn't normally?"

"No. That was- you were- it felt like a _miracle_. And nothing _hurts_ , I mean- I _still_ feel... It's _never_ been like that before, that _perfect_. Amazing. Not for me. And I still feel like _me_."

Stiles cups Derek's cheeks in his hands, elated and heartachingly joyful, kisses his forehead and says, all reverence, " _Thank you_."

Derek swallows the surge of love and warmth he feels for the man in front of him, the guilt and self-deprecation that comes with it, and the sudden, completely justified hatred he's beginning to feel for his Uncle Peter. He swallows it all down, because it's too much, because he can't _act_ on any of it, because Stiles ought to have been angry and instead he's just thanking him for being... kind.

He's _always_ thanking him for being kind.

He never, ever expects it.

Derek swallows again, fights tooth and nail for the smile he manages to plaster on his face as he says, "Okay."

* * *

Derek walks into Talia's study and sits down on the chair in front of her desk, she looks up at him from her computer and gestures for him to wait a moment while she continues to write a not-too important e-mail to the mayor about one of his children. It helps to have friends in high places, she supposes, but she still has _morals_.

Her son smells freshly showered, faintly like some sort of condensed Stiles-scent, like a soupy swamp and soggy leaves, apprehensive, pissed, a little terrified.

"Derek, honey," she asks after she's distractedly hit send, "what's wrong?"

"I'm in love with Stiles," he tells her, sitting in a determinedly placid position, eyes locked fiercely with hers.

She blinks at him. She had known, when she'd heard him, when he'd gone into Rut at the same time Stiles had gone into Heat. She might've even known when she saw how they looked at each other when they first met, that they were Mates. And though love does tend to come with that, after awhile, Derek had seemed so far in denial about it, despite everything... She'd thought he'd notice his instincts, eventually, and come to her, pensive and brooding, and they'd deal with it then.

Instead, he'd disregarded his wolf altogether and fallen in love with Stiles for the sake of it- again, despite everything.

That... kind of makes it worse.

"Oh, Derek," she sighs.

He smiles, a sharp, grim little thing, the kind of smile a warrior takes into battle with them. She's never seen her son smile like that.

"I know," he says, takes his hands off the armrest and settles them, in white-knuckled fists, in his lap. He looks at them, jaw and shoulders set, for a long while before he manages to talk again.

"I don't have the _evidence_ yet, all I have is instinct and worry- but I don't think Peter loves him, I don't think Peter _has ever_ been _kind_ to him, and I- I don't think their relationship started while Peter was single. I don't even think their relationship started while Stiles was _legal_."

He looks up at her again, and she's honestly never seen his eyes like this, besotted and heartbroken all at once, like he'd be willing to kill for the one he loves, even if it means sacrificing his soul, as long as _they_ make it out, he won't mind, like he's already accepted the price before he even landed the killing blow. Like he's already devastated, but he's accepted it, knows what his devastation means. It's sharp and blazing, cut from steel, yet raw and broken completely open.

She swallows.

"You know what I'm accusing him of, don't you?"

"Statutory rape and domestic abuse."

"I'll find the proof, Mom. I'm never letting anyone hurt Stiles again."

"And after? Are you planning on telling him how you feel?"

Derek gives her a long hard look, with those eyes she's never seen him wear, and slowly shakes his head.

"He thinks Peter is what he _needs_. After? I'm expecting him to _hate_ me, especially since I'm _using him_ to find out what I need to know to, at the very least, defame Peter, since I don't think an actual _case_ can be made. I'm expecting Stiles to never want to see my face again by the time I'm done, because by then? If I'm _right_? Peter's _life_ will be in shambles around him.

"I don't think Stiles _loves_ Peter, but he _cares_ for him, and I don't think he'd ever forgive me that. So, no. I won't tell him how I feel. I'll do the only thing I _can_ do." A breath, a swallow, "I'll let him go."

"Derek..."

He gives her a smile, all heartache and longing and tenacity.

"It'll be okay, Mom," he tells her, and though she can hear the lie, though he knows she can, he says it anyway.

* * *

It's been four months since Peter went comatose, about half a month since Derek put Stiles Down the _first_ time. They've done it quite a few times since, and though it almost always ends up being sensual, Derek does try to avoid going too far. He's discovered that breathplay and hairpulling and back scratching and biting all really work for Stiles, but the thing that works best? Praise.

He's found a few things, e-mails and text messages that shed light on the fact that Stiles has been with Peter for five years. Since he was 16. That's statutory rape after the fact, right there.

As for evidence of abuse? There's nothing but assumptions, subtle hints in their dialogue, scars, and the way Stiles _acts_ sometimes. And Derek hadn't expected much in that area, unless Stiles actually opened up and talked to him about it, which isn't something Derek is holding his breath for, isn't something he's sure he'd be able to handle, anyway.

Derek had thought, maybe, them doing the things they do together when Stiles goes Under, the kisses they share sometimes even when he _isn't_ , might change their relationship. And it has, in a way. They don't talk about Peter, they don't ever really fully discuss what they do together or what they are to each other. They're close, closer than friends, farther than lovers. And it _aches_ , like a gaping, salted wound sometimes, but it's _good_ , it's better than anything else Derek has experienced.

Because it's Stiles; it's the man he loves.

It's almost Thanksgiving now, and they're both at the loft, Stiles trying to coax Poughkeepsie out from under Peter's bed with some kind of feather toy because he wants to play with her, but she's being exceedingly stubborn.

"Why didn't you ever go to college?" Derek finds himself asking when Stiles has grunted out his frustration with her 'stupid face' for the fifth time in about as many minutes. It's amusing, and Derek would've let it go on for much longer uninterrupted, because he's honestly entertained, but this has been nagging at him ever since he found out that Stiles' SAT score was practically genius level good.

Stiles looks up at him, seems to war over something, and then sighs.

"Money, partly," he explains as he gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, "I mean, my dad's the sheriff, and we weren't exactly impoverished, but. And my paintings were already selling, and that's what I love, that's what I wanted to do anyway, so I just. I put the whole of myself into that."

Stiles bites his lip and then pats the bed beside him, silently asking Derek to sit beside him, when he does Stiles leans into his side, seeming to take comfort from his presence.

Derek can smell the anxiety rolling off him in waves, can tell he's trying to psych himself out, trying to say something out loud that he might not really want to.

"You don't have to tell me," Derek says quietly as he takes Stiles' hand in his, Stiles squeezes gratefully and they both sit in silence for a few moments.

"Saul told me... Peter never did, although maybe I should've known, but Saul told me- what- what you are?"

Derek swallows, cards his fingers through Stiles' hair.

"Yeah."

"And that thing- that thing that happens to me, that you help with?"

"Yeah?"

"It's because I'm something, too."

Derek's brow furrows, he looks down at Stiles who can't seem to meet his eyes. Stiles doesn't smell like a 'were, but in those moments when he's all chemicals and hollowed out smells he doesn't exactly smell human either, not to mention the fact that his smell is the most potent scent Derek's ever caught, it's always overwhelming, unless it's being cut off by ice.

"I'm an-" Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it, wrings his hands together in his lap.

"It's okay," Derek tells him, Stiles offers a shy smile, but his eyes say he doesn't believe that for one second.

"I'm an Empath," is what he finally says. And that? Is the last thing Derek expected. He takes the minute he needs to let that sink in, what it means, wholly.

What it means for them, how it's probably affected their whole relationship in ways Derek never even noticed. He wonders, for a moment, why Stiles was so terrified to tell him, and realizes, for anyone else, it would be a breach of privacy, an intrusion, something that could make every aspect of their relationship with Stiles a lie. Because what if he was reacting to what they were feeling, instead of what they said? What if Stiles used that inside information to his advantage?

But that would be intensely hypocritical from a werewolf, because although Derek can't _feel_ what other people feel, he can certainly smell it to some extent. And he'd already accepted what he felt for Stiles, he hadn't forgiven it, didn't really expect anyone else to forgive him for it either, considering the circumstances- but he'd accepted it. And everything else he's felt pales in comparison to his love for Stiles, though he supposes it might make it easier for Stiles to guess at what he's planning to do to Peter, but he didn't expect anyone, least of all Stiles, to forgive him that either.

He knows, already, all of the things he feels for and about and around the man beside him. He finds he honestly doesn't care that Stiles knows, too. It kind of... makes it easier. He doesn't have to say anything out loud, Stiles already knows, it makes it honest in a raw, unyielding sort of way. It's more than telling the lie in the heartbeat, or the vague fleeting feeling in the scent.

It somehow feels so much purer, more beautiful than that.

It's barely even a leap to fall in love with this piece of him too, he's already so far gone. If anything, this? Knowing that he knows about werewolves and to some extent understands in a way no human could, the reluctance and fear in saying it out loud because you have no idea how any one person will react, the lack of complete control and the need to surrender to your instincts, and then realizing how strong and kind Stiles has been throughout it all (kind enough to know how he feels, to keep his secrets for him, to allow touch and trust, to submit to him, to ask for him when he's in need)...

He just loves him impossibly more. Sometimes he wonders if it'll ever stop, the way his love just grows and grows, and then Stiles will do something, small like trying to bake banana nut bread and pouting when he fails miserably, huge like telling Derek this, trusting him with it like he's trusted him with so much more, and he just _loves_ him. Falls deeper, feels _more_ , a surge of warmth and affection and loyalty and devotion so vast he _drowns_ in it.

He wonders, really, if this will kill him when it ends.

Especially when it's never even really begun.

 _"Derek..."_ Stiles breathes, and when Derek looks over he finds the Omega looks a little startled, a little awed, a little broken, and is trying valiantly to hold back tears. He just wraps him in his arms and holds him close, rubbing his back comfortingly.

"It's okay," he repeats, because, really, it is.

* * *

In the car, when Derek is driving him home- because that's something he really likes doing and something Stiles indulges more often than not- Stiles explains that he has a hard time controlling his abilities, and that they're pretty strong, stronger than his mom's were, and his mom is the only other Empath he's ever met. College, he says, along with _anywhere_ that required him to be in big groups of people for long periods of time, would've been hell. School, when he was a kid, was hell.

He says, sometimes, whatever guards he manages to have to protect himself just don't work, or don't work as well as they're supposed to, and he ends up feeling _everything_ , to the point that he loses himself. It normally happens around his Heat, but it happens other times too, and the only thing that really helps is being put Under. He can manage on his own, and before Derek, he was _used_ to handling it on his own- though Peter did, when he was available, unwittingly help.

Because Peter doesn't know. Stiles never told him, and from how he said it, it didn't seem like he was ever planning to.

Stiles, then, says he's sorry for lying and thanks him fervently for reacting the way he did, instead of hating him, or something.

"I could never hate you," Derek tells him, and Stiles just smiles, sad and a little brittle because, Derek knows now, he understands just how much horrible truth there is to that.

When Derek parks, before Stiles leaves the car and enters his house he pulls Derek in, kisses him sweet and slow and deep, pulls away breathless and says, "The very best of us, Der."

Then he goes.

Derek wonders if Stiles really means that, even when he can probably see the darkest parts of his heart, even when it's taking every ounce of self-control nowadays to not just walk into his Uncle's hospital room and rip his throat out with his teeth. And if, even being able to feel that, Stiles still believes such a thing?

Well, Derek just loves him all the more.

* * *

Thanksgiving turns out to be a grand affair for the Hale household, so much extended family, and all the extended family's Pack-mates. The house is brimming with people, and so many have pooled out around it, there's so much chatter and so many emotions. It would probably be harder to deal with were it not for the fact that Derek, serial killer eyebrows firmly in place, is sticking to him as stubborn as anything.

And Derek, Stiles has learned, loves and worries and hopes with every ounce of his being. Derek has always felt and smelled like safety to him, but it's become so much _more_ than that. Because Derek became someone he could trust. Because Derek, now, whenever they're together, wraps his emotions around him, subconsciously, almost, all love and tempered affection, ferocious-protective, content-companion, need and want and cotton-candy colorful-sweet. Because Derek, some magical how, fell in _love_ with him, and after being told the truth of what he was, just fell _deeper_.

It seems impossible, it seems like a miracle, a wonder, a surprise, but that's who Derek is. Grumpy and pissed off and surly looking on the outside, but with a heart of fucking _gold_ that never, ever quits. Never ceases to be anything short of amazing. And Stiles can feel, too, all of his doubts and his guilt and his inexplicable rage toward Peter, he understands very little of it, tries to soothe him when he can.

He knows this can't last forever, it's like a fairytale spell that will be broken if they ever speak on it aloud, if Peter ever wakes up. It's fragile and indiscernible and it'll shatter, leave both of them ragged and gasping in pieces on the floor.

But when Derek puts him Under he feels _free_ and when Derek kisses him he _flies_ and when Derek is there, by his side, he can _breathe_.

He doesn't want the spell to end.

He wants to be slave to it forever.

It's not what he deserves, and life is never that kind, but... Derek makes being an Empath so much _easier_ , he makes being alive... okay, again.

He's broken out of his thoughts by the little uptick of worry that always precedes the question:

"You okay?" Asked all gruff, Alpha, because ever since Derek learned about his abilities he's been extremely conscientious of them, and was more freaked out than Stiles himself about bringing the Empath around this large a gathering.

Stiles beams, summer-bright and joyful as he tugs them toward the music, the people laughing and dancing, the children painting and weaving flower-crowns for everyone.

"Dance with me, Der!"

A flow of surprise, and then an overwhelming, overflowing, all-encompassing warmth of utter besotted, devoted _love_ so deep and incredible it nearly takes his breath away. All while Derek's face remains implacable. He really doesn't exercise his facial muscles unless they're alone.

And with laughter and stumbles and Mikey and Colin having braided flowers all throughout their hair Stiles finds that, although he himself is a terrible dancer, Derek is absolutely and utterly _awful_.

Cora and Laura are delighted that he's even trying to dance at all.

And every time he makes a fool of himself, and Stiles giggles helplessly, the endeared-happy emotions soar, and Derek's mouth twitches and it feels like _family_.

It feels like _home_.

Like _peace_.

And Stiles thinks, maybe for the first time, that Peter waking up might not have to break the spell after all.

* * *

Talia finds them, after most everyone has moved inside or gone off into the Preserve to run with all the Packs. It isn't a full moon, but with all of them together, and the food, and the festivities, it just feels like a good night to run.

But there Derek and Stiles are, right outside, flowers all around them, in their hair and all over their clothes with petals pooled around their bodies (probably the work of little Mikey). They're curled up into each other, breathing one another's air, arms and legs tangled and wrapped around, their scent so interweaved it's impossible to discern that it's coming from two different people.

Stiles makes a small whining noise in his sleep and, as if on instinct, Derek's brow momentarily furrows and he snuggles in closer, wraps a gentle hand around Stiles' throat, and Stiles is instantly mollified, both of them becoming peaceful again.

They're so lovely together. She's seen it, how Stiles is with Derek, how Derek is with Stiles. She's seen Mates before, and she's heard of them, Mates versus True-Mates and the like.

She thinks this might be the first time she's ever actually _seen_ it though.

There are no words for something like this.

It's too beautiful, pure, sacred.

Precious.

* * *

Stiles wakes up at one point, tangled up with Derek, covered in flowers, all warmth-lullaby pressure. It takes him a moment to realize that there aren't any blankets and that it's impossible- even for Derek- for a single person to create this cascade of sleepy-good emotions he's feeling by proxy. So he lifts his head from where it had wound up on Derek's shoulder and looks around to find more than half of the family all piled up and spread around them. in Talia, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and little Mikey's case, practically on top of them.

He giggles into Derek's neck before cuddling in closer, savoring the emotional and physical warmth surrounding him, the love from Derek blanketing him securely.

"Werewolves," Stiles huffs to the stars in the sky with a shake of his head before letting sleep take him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any egregious errors or have any suggestions, don't be afraid to speak up in the comments! Anyway, thank you for reading, muah!!!


	3. Burn All The Spindles & Drown All The Dragons (Three Cheers For Good Fairy Godmothers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - Implied/ Referenced suicide attempt, it's a little vague, but still _there_ , seriously, if that isn't something you think you can handle, _turn away now_ , please. I love your faces.

_'Don't be afraid of the water, Mischief,'_ he remembers Mama saying, even though the water was this vast gaping chasm of _pull_ , of Life and Death, Fate and Luck, Balance and Chaos. Even though the water was sentient and alive and breathing with its tides, even though the water whispered and sang and screamed. It wasn't any sort of human emotion, and there weren't any real words for the things Stiles could feel from it.

It was just like a maw.

A lure.

Opening.

Calling him.

Wanting to consume him, and swallow, and Stiles didn't know if it would ever let it go once he stepped inside its mouth, its trap, its door.

He didn't know if it would give him back to his Mother if he answered its call.

But Mama said, _'Don't be afraid, Mieczysław.'_

And so he let the water sweep him up, and he felt infinitesimal in its infinity, but he could feel _himself_ , there, underwater, when he swam. And for the first time, he knew who he was, how he felt, without anyone else.

It was terrifying.

But then, isn't freedom _always_?

* * *

Phillip loves his Uncle's Omega. And he loves his Uncle, his Uncle who's always been more like a cousin to him, they're so close. But he knows his Uncle, too. And he sees, sees how full of _life_ Stiles is. 

So full of contradictions. He is always, always afraid, but he trusts unflinchingly, unabashedly vulnerable, and without restraint. Even when none of them had done anything to earn it, Phillip is sure Stiles would've died for them. And maybe that's because he's an Empath, because he wouldn't want to feel it by proxy, because he wouldn't want to suffer.

Only, Stiles is the least selfish person Phillip knows. He wants no one to suffer. But if someone has to, he'd rather it be him, every time. The man is a Martyr, he's half-suicidal, and yet, still. He wants to love. To be loved in return. He clings to affection like a lifeline, and gives it away to any who ask, unreservedly.

Stiles may be the strongest person Phillip has ever met.

Stiles may be the most _fragile_ person Phillip has ever met.

All those contradictions.

Phillip can see how someone might want to marry Stiles, might want to Mate and fall in love with him. And Uncle Peter _has_ always liked a puzzle. But he also doesn't like unsolvable riddles, doesn't like chatter or clutter or things he deems useless, and there is no one his Uncle loves more than himself. Phillip loves the man, but he knows him.

And Stiles is the last person in the world Phillip thought Peter would accept as his Mate, even though Stiles is the first, would always be the first, he thinks, who would accept Peter.

But Phillip worries. Because Stiles is young, too young to be acting like Peter and he have been together for years, especially when, only months ago- before the crash- Peter was with Kate Argent. Because sometimes Stiles flinches away from touch, and smells like the terror of a child who has seen a _monster_ , and then he smells of nothing but winter, and that is not _right_. Because Stiles looks at Peter like someone, resigned and accepting and telling themselves- _'Okay, okay, I can do this, I won't close my eyes'_ \- might look at the barrel of a gun, aimed right at their heart. Because Stiles looks at Derek like Derek is a wonderous, beautiful, astounding thing, and he doesn't flinch away, anymore, when it's _Derek_ reaching for him.

And Derek looks at Stiles... Gods. Derek, his little brother, always so closed off and introverted and _angsty_ , especially after Paige. Paige who found out he was a werewolf and used it against him before running away and leaving Derek desolate and alone. Derek who has always craved affection and love, the same way Phillip thinks Stiles does, the same kind that Stiles gives to everyone he can reach just for the simple fact that they're close enough to _touch_.

Derek looks at Stiles and he smiles like the world is ending but he doesn't mind. Like this will kill him, but the poison tastes good, anyway. Like he'll miss Stiles the most, even if Stiles is the one unwittingly holding the knife. And his eyes go soft, and his face does something Phillip has never seen it do before, his scent wrapping around the Omega, protective shroud, and he hooks a strand of hair behind Stiles' ear, and he says, even though it's a lie, even though he might be dying around the words, he says:

 _'It'll be okay,'_ and his eyes twinkle, and his smile shines, and Derek loves him. Derek must love him, to look at him like that. And Derek isn't going to keep himself from falling, Phillip knows, because he's already decided to let the fall kill him.

He's already accepted it.

And, as long as he gets to see Stiles until the very end, until the inevitable crash-landing? Phillip thinks Derek might not honestly care.

So, he loves his Uncle, like a brother, he really does, but when he sees Stiles, eyes bright with laughter, lean into Derek's touch and look up at him like maybe, if Derek is the one saying it, it might actually be true? Like, if it's Derek, it _must_ be? Like maybe he can _breathe_ again?

Phillip begins to want Peter to be on the losing side this time, however much he knows the man hates losing.

* * *

Stiles remembers the lakes they swam in, and the sea, and he remembers, whenever he was there, inside of himself, in their bellies, like a baby in the womb again, he remembers feeling the Moon, in his periphery. Like if he just swam deep enough he'd be able to touch that ancient beautiful thing.

And he remembers, the day his mother died. He remembers what it felt like, to die, as he held her hand, to die, as his father watched her body being carted away and held his, to die, as he swam deeper and deeper and deeper, unafraid.

He remembers it sounded like the tinkle-chime of a distant bell, the smell of wild, and the _feel_ of wolves.

And when he asked the moon and the water to take him, to take him far, far away, where he couldn't feel _anything_ anymore.

And when he woke up, hospital all around him, his father stricken and harrowed and _needing, needing, needing_ him.

And years later, when he told the moon and the water thank you for not listening to him. Because his father needed him. Only, now his father had Melissa. And Melissa is getting round with the child they made in their love for each other.

But that's alright.

Because Stiles found Peter.

And he won't ask the moon and the water to take him away again.

He won't ask Peter, either, but he has a feeling Peter knows, anyway.

* * *

Laura never liked Uncle Peter much. He's always been such an arrogant, egotistical, narcissistic prick. He's never liked that Mom was a _kind_ sort of Alpha, never thought she was good enough at handling threats to Beacon Hills, to the Pack, and he's never thought she was very good at her job either. He's always trying to one-up them all, to be just that little bit ahead of everyone, just that little bit better.

And because she was the Alpha in Training he's never looked upon her kindly. Always expecting her to be adult where she can't or couldn't be yet, to be too young where she was _trying_ , to be too soft _always_ , because _Mom_ was too soft.

And she knew, instinctively, from the moment she was very young still, that he was a cruel man.

So that he was engaged to one of the sweetest, purest, kindest men she's ever met? Well, it came as a surprise, to say the least.

Although, maybe he isn't as pure as she thinks, because she sees him, sometimes, sneaking around with Derek.

And maybe Peter is just as cruel as she suspected, she thinks, when he flinches away from most everybody's touch, when his scent becomes frozen-water nothing.

She knows who she's rooting for, in this, and she knows she wants to punch her Uncle as soon as he wakes and demand answers to all of the suspicions she has, to all of the things she's sure Stiles would never confess to, because the idiot will protect Peter, she knows, no matter what Peter has done to him.

What she doesn't know, however, is what to say when she finds her little brother on the front porch, watching as Stiles rides away on his motorcycle. When he looks at her, eyes vivid underneath the half-moon, lips curled in the most heartbreaking smile she's ever seen, face softer than it's maybe ever been, and he says:

"I'm going to lose him, soon, Laur."

And she hears his heart stay steady, knows he thinks that's the truth of it. And she thinks her brother might not survive that, and she doesn't want to believe it, anyway, so she says:

"No, you're not."

And his smile grows, blooms on his face like a flower that knows it's about to be plucked out of the ground by an uncaring child and decides to be pretty anyway, because the child is innocent, and wilting in their hands is better than never having known the joy of their touch at all.

"When Peter wakes up," he tells her softly, and then he hugs her, and he goes back inside.

She tries not to think of Stiles leaving Derek, of making him so _alone_ again. She tries not to think of her Uncle waking. She tries not to think of how her little brother said _'soon'_ , and how she might never see him smile again when Stiles goes.

She tries to be angry, at Stiles for making Derek fall in love with him when he's engaged to another man, at Peter for being the reason why Stiles is always so, so _scared_ (and she knows he is), at Derek for letting all of this happen, for just _accepting_ it when he should be fighting.

But she can't be mad at Stiles, because Stiles loves Derek just as much. She can't be mad at Derek, because they all already know that Stiles won't leave Peter, no matter how he feels, because he doesn't want Peter to suffer, because he may not love Peter, but he wants to protect him, he wants to give Peter his _life_.

She will be furious, though, at her Uncle. She will be furious and she will remember, and it may take her years, but she will _kill_ him for this.

He doesn't deserve Stiles, who will accept pain and fear and blood when he shouldn't fucking _have_ to, and he doesn't deserve Derek, who will let Stiles go even though the act may well kill him, but he does deserve Laura, and he will never see her coming.

* * *

The Hale Pack is like the water, Stiles thinks, all raw, unadulterated life, always allowing for him to be as much of himself as he can be, even blanketed by all of their overwhelming emotions.

And it is amazing, he finds, to be with them.

And just as frightening as the water once was.

It's a Catch-22, he's sure, because as soon as he trusts them with everything he is, they will find out about Peter, about Derek, and he will lose them just the same.

Then again, freedom always requires sacrifice, doesn't it?

And he certainly isn't free now, for all that he put himself here.

* * *

The first time Cora really sees Stiles smile, it's at Derek. Stiles is her age, but he's so much older, in all the ways that matter. He's responsible and mature and he's motherly in a way that _isn't_ very Omega at all. In fact, he's probably the least Omega Omega she's ever met. He's brave and loud and _everywhere_ , he knows _everything_ and he smiles at _everyone_.

He makes sure that no one around him sees the cracks in his soul, just under his skin. He's _flailing_ , not flinching. He's _calm_ , not terrified. He's with Uncle Peter, not in love with his fucking Nephew.

He smiles at all of them, and, she's sure, he loved them all the very moment he met them. He's like that, the idiot. Someone could take a knife to his throat, she thinks, and he'd smile at them and close his eyes, forgive them and just wait for the killing blow. He's defenseless, but so fucking powerful.

It shouldn't be possible, should it, to love and forgive and care for everyone, even if they're the monsters? And Stiles would know, better than anyone, who the Monsters are.

Because he's an Empath. He'd have to _feel_ them. Yet he loves them anyway, she knows. He's stubborn like that, too.

Because he's accepted the Pack for what they are, not just because of what he is, but because he already loved them too much to ever do anything less. They could've slaughtered his whole family, she thinks, and he still would've just given that sad little smile of his and forgiven them all the same.

Cora wonders if knowing this about him, knowing the type of person he is- knowing that he made them stop the car for a dying little bird in the middle of the road just so that the thing wouldn't have to pass alone, knowing that he makes up stories for little Mikey and the twins about dragons and banshees and princesses with warm hands who make whole forests grow during wintertime, knowing that he can paint all that pain and haunted anguish he feels and still manage to even get up in the morning, knowing that he can make Derek laugh, loud and boisterous and gleeful- she wanders if that's why she's already forgiven him for what she knows he's doing to Uncle Peter.

Or maybe it's because of that smile. The first time she sees it, it's so very shocking, because she's never seen him _smile_ before. Not really, not like that. The wariness, the weariness, the short sharp burn of calculation and agitation and tension and that coil of innate fear is all gone. He is soft and sacharrine and he smells like the night sky when all of the stars are out, he smells like seaweed and still-wet skin and ancient, musing lullabies. His eyes are sun-soaked mahogany, crinkling; his rose-petal pink lips are soft around pearly white teeth and he's completely, wholly focused on Derek, arm wrapped around the other man's bicep as he murmurs, in response to something she didn't hear:

"The very best of us, Der."

And Derek just smiles back, not in the same way, exactly, his smile is more of an ache, more of a benediction, more of a promise and a resignation to his fate, yet still one of the truest smiles she's ever witnessed cross his lips, and he kisses Stiles' temple, and his eyes, his eyes look so very sad before he closes them, breathes in as if to memorize something he thinks could disappear from him forever any second now, swallows, pulls back and says:

"So are you."

And Stiles laughs, bright, a little self-deprecating, like he could never believe such a thing, and wherever did Derek get such a _silly_ idea? Derek's face softens, even as his eyes fill with _such_ heartache, even as his hand shakes the slightest bit when he runs his fingers through Stiles' hair.

Maybe it's because she saw that, that she's already forgiven them for what they're doing to Uncle Peter. It's hurting them more, she thinks, than it'll ever hurt her Uncle, anyway.

* * *

Erica is enamored with Stiles. He's like a swan, all white and pure and beautiful, but with that darkness underneath. He reminds her of the play. His paintings remind her of the stories her Mother used to tell her, about Old Gods and the humans they'd steal away, take for Mates, about Kings who battled over Princesses and justice that never came. They remind her of the stories Talia told her, on the first few full moons she had to endure after they adopted her into the Pack, after they saved her from the cage of her own body. Stories of the first wolves, stories of the moon, stories of faerie dust and magic.

The way Stiles talks reminds her of libraries and dusty comic books, the way he calls her cat woman. The way he takes care of her because she's _there_ , because she might _need_ it reminds her of that time when she was a child and she first learned what unconditional love truly was. It doesn't feel as cloying as it might, were it anyone else, because he _knows_ how strong she is, and he doesn't pity her, and when he hears stories of her past all he tells her is that human beings can be cruel, but she made it, she _survived_ , and he's so very proud of her. And the way he looks at her when he says that? It makes her feel beautiful, and stronger than anything.

She knows he believes in her.

The way he looks at Peter, sometimes, when he thinks no one else is looking, reminds her of how she felt when she woke up, body still twitching with after-shocks, urine itching at her legs and coating the new dress she had worn because it was the first day of school and she wanted to look _pretty_ , tears stinging her eyes as all her schoolmates laughed at her and screamed _'Weak! You're just a weak little Omega! Find an Alpha to make you their bitch!'_

Cruel, indeed.

The way Stiles looks at Derek reminds her of how she'd looked at Boyd when he swept her up in his arms and carried her over the threshold after they'd gotten married, of how her heart still flutters when he looks at her, stern and stony-faced, but with a light in his eyes brighter than anything. Brighter than the sun. It reminds her of those days before he'd popped the question, when he was being more restrained with her than normal and she'd stupidly thought he was maybe gearing up to break it off with her. It reminds her of how cracked open she feels when she lays underneath him, and how reborn, refreshed, renewed and _worshipped_ she feels when he tells her he loves her as he does it, when they're done, and in the morning when she wakes up cleaned and smiling.

The way Derek looks at Stiles reminds her of a long sweaty summer when she was nine, and the smile her Aunt had whenever she talked about her dead Mate, reminds her of long, velvet black dresses that her Mother embroidered beautiful colorful flowers into, always saying that even if her little sister was a widow she couldn't wear _nothing_ but _black_ forever. Reminds her of a soft hand that held hers as they walked to the grave of a man she never knew, of a woman so consumed with grief, that next summer there was another grave beside his, and she would never be able to feel that soft hand holding hers ever again.

The way Stiles smells reminds her of the small lake out in the Preserve, of the night she lost her virginity on the small wooden dock that led out to it, of the crickets and cicadas and the stars she could see just over Graham's shoulder, the milkyway, right there, so close, and the smell of the forest and the dirt all around them mixed with sweat and newness and the lake-water still on their skin, still making their muscles cool despite the heat of the moment.

Erica is enamored with Stiles, and Derek is in love with him, and Peter sleeps, and she hopes it stays like this forever, even though she knows it won't, even though she knows this is the Entropy of the in between, even though she knows that at some point, something will have to _give_.

She just hopes that nothing shatters when it does.

But she knows, too, that Fate is not a kindly thing, neither is Luck, least of all theirs.

* * *

Mikey likes the way Stiles murmurs to him when it's late and he comes along with Mommy to visit Uncle Peter. Mikey adores Stiles' stories, they're _awesome_. Mikey doesn't think Stiles smiles enough, and so he tries to make Stiles smile as much as he can. Mikey likes Stiles' eyes, they look like his favorite pastries and they almost flash beta-gold when they catch the sun just right. Mikey really, really likes the way Stiles cards his fingers through his hair and holds him in his lap. Stiles is soft and he smells good and Mommy has told him he's gonna be family soon, Pack. Mikey thinks he already is.

One day, when Mikey is frustrated with Mommy and Daddy and all of their rules and how they never let him do anything on his _own_ , he runs away. Well, he runs off into the Preserve and he maybe gets a little lost. But he won't cry and he won't howl for his Pack, he won't. He's not going to give them the _satisfaction!_

Only. Only it's getting darker now, and maybe he fell and skinned his knee, and maybe he's just a little scared, because he's not even old enough to _know_ if he's a 'were yet. All of his siblings are, but Daddy is a human, and Mikey might be one too, and it hurts and it's too quiet and he's all alone and the tears just come out of him like the natural disaster Laura is always telling him he is.

But then Derek is _there_ , and scooping him up and shushing him, and saying: "It's okay, it's okay, now, little brother. I've got you, shh, it's okay."

And then there's Stiles too, and the two of them have got him in between their chests and Stiles starts humming something that feels like candy and makes Mikey's head turn into cotton balls without his permission. And it's dark, but he's not alone anymore, and it smells better here, it smells like when Mommy and Daddy hold him between their chests like this, it smells like love.

And as Mikey drifts off to sleep he wonders if Stiles is gonna be his big brother, and not his Uncle. He knows that would make Der happier, he knows because Der likes Stiles too, even more than he does!

His ceiling, when he wakes the next day, has been painted to look like a sky full of white, puffy clouds, and he's squished in his bed with Derek on one side and Stiles on the other, and they're holding onto each other tightly with Mikey between them.

It feels good, and his ceiling is a lot prettier now.

Mikey smiles.

* * *

Derek's eyes remind him of the water, and the flecks in them of bright, colorful koi. When Derek puts him Under it feels like swimming, and when he goes deep enough, he thinks he can feel the moon, all around them, singing something long forgotten in a voice that doesn't need words, that may well preclude time itself.

When he's with Derek it feels like he can find himself, right there, underneath emotions like faith and adoration and affection and devotion and love. Emotions that swallow him up and don't let anything else near, even though, just like the moon, he can feel the faint terror, agony, pain, expectation, resignation, and forgiveness for Stiles, but hatred toward himself, on the fringes, like burning.

"The very best of us," Stiles is always telling him when those emotions start to eat their way in, because he _is_.

"It's okay," Derek is always telling him, when it's only just beginning to get that little bit too much, and they both know he's lying, but it soothes the ache, anyway.

And Stiles trusts Derek.

Stiles thinks he maybe loves him.

 _'Don't be afraid of the water, Mischief,'_ his Mama had said, as if it were just that easy.

And Stiles looks into liquid-clear hazel eyes, and he tries his very best not to be.

But the future is creeping in on them.

And Stiles is not a free man, Stiles dived too deep into other eyes, ones that cut like crystal-glass, ones as blue as ice, that were as frozen as the heart behind them was.

Stiles doesn't know if he'll be able to get free of that cage he put himself in, even with this taste, even with this moratorium. He wonders if he'll be trapped inside the ice forever because he's too much of a fucking _coward_ to say anything.

Derek smiles at him, and those eyes are open and honest and becoming more and more broken with every passing day, and Stiles' heart _aches_ , because he knows he's the reason for that.

 _'Don't be afraid,'_ his mother's voice echoes.

Stiles is terrified.

He kisses Derek anyway, and it feels like freedom, it feels like a promise, it feels like the moon on the very edge, like _living_ , like it's fucking supposed to.

Like falling in love and swimming and flying all at once.

 _'I'll try, Mama,'_ he thinks to her, to her ghost as iridescent and fleeting and unattainable as the moon, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and losing himself.

* * *

Isaac understood pain, he understood abuse, and he understood Stiles. Because it was painfully obvious, even more so with the nose of a werewolf, that Stiles had experienced both those things.

Isaac has never particularly liked or disliked Peter, his adoptive Uncle, the man just never really tried to get to know him, wasn't around for anything other than the absolutely mandatory Pack meetings, and he'd always come with that blonde Omega strapped to his arm with her blood-red saccharine-sweet smile. And it seemed like the two of them had this in-joke about the whole Pack that no one else was in on, both of them bored and distantly amused, Kate always making undercut, subtle insults, and Peter always smiling fondly instead of rebuking her or defending them.

Isaac never really formed an opinion, but it never did sit right with him.

Which might've been why he was wary of Peter's _new_ fiancee, someone they'd never met before, another Omega, of course, because Peter is kind of a traditionalist.

He was so pleasantly surprised by Stiles, though, who was loud and animated, all limbs and comforting kindness and a deep-seated love for everyone, _everyone_ , whether or not they'd even earned it. Unconditional love might've been an understatement when it came to him, seriously, Isaac and Erica had joked about a missed opportunity for a fucking sainthood.

And that was another part of it. Stiles was just so _inherently good_.

But, Isaac knew, goodness like that attracted predators, sociopaths who latched onto the vulnerability of someone who just _loves_ and could never fight back because they don't want to _hurt_ anyone. It wasn't the kind of abusive relationship he had with his dad, every relationship is different, even the abusive ones. But it was a _type_ of abusive relationship.

And the first time that someone went to touch Stiles without saying anything, and the man jerked first, covered with a startled laugh, and smelled sour with fear and terror before he smelled of ice and nothingness and _wrong_? Isaac began to suspect that maybe this kindly, wonderful soul that the whole Pack was falling in love with might've been a victim, too.

And Isaac knew the Sheriff, John Stilinski was the man who had gotten him away from his father, who still called once a month to check in that he was doing good, that called him son with that cheer curling in his voice like he couldn't even help himself. Isaac knew, too, the Sheriff's new wife, the nurse that had always given him a sad smile and his father merciless verbal beatdowns where she thought he couldn't hear.

And Isaac saw how Stiles would sometimes look at Peter. Isaac knew that expression well, it was the one he wore when he used to watch his father drink, when his life was waiting and praying, _praying_ that it would just be the belt this time and not the fucking freezer.

Which is why Isaac says, one day, "It's okay for it to change."

"What?" Stiles seems startled, Isaac doesn't blame him, it's the first time they've really talked without at least Erica to buffer, Isaac doesn't normally do well with strangers alone.

But Stiles isn't much of a stranger, now, is he?

"It's been five months, Stiles," Isaac tells him, and then repeats, "so, it's okay for it to change."

Because he has a feeling that telling Stiles outright to ditch his abuser would be the same as telling Isaac, when he was younger, to tell someone, anyone, what his father was doing to him. It's hard to explain, the fear and the love so intermingled they become a new, twisted, defensive protective emotion that is precariously close to madness.

But he sees the way Stiles is with Derek, and he hopes, that maybe if he gives him the push that Stiles' father gave _him_ , maybe he'll grab ahold of that lifeline on his own. Like Isaac grabbed ahold of Talia.

"The only question is... Do you _want_ it to?"

* * *

When they were sixteen, Scott noticed Stiles change. He didn't know why or what it was that caused it, but he was just a little quieter, just a little more affected by the world around him than normal. Stiles has always been his best friend, for as long as he can remember, and it was cool, when Scott found out Stiles was an Empath, although he knew it sucked for Stiles sometimes.

("But it's like you're a superhero, dude!" Scott would tell him, and Stiles' answering smile would be wry as anything.)

When they were sixteen, Scott found Allison, another Alpha with dimples and a glorious smell, and he fell in love. Scott always wondered if that's what made Stiles change, that Scott didn't have as much time for him anymore? So he did his best to make more, to be in love with Allison and still be a good best friend.

When they were seventeen Scott noticed some bruises, noticed the way Stiles would sometimes get pale and tired and deathly silent as he stared out into the middle distance, the way he had to take more medicine for his migraines than normal. And Stiles had told him he was getting more powerful with age, and more clumsy, but that he was fine, _'Go on your date with Allison, I'm feeling great, Scott, you big puppy, just go.'_ Scott had this weird feeling in his stomach, like maybe Stiles was lying, but why would he? And he's always listened to Stiles, most of the time, anyway, so he went.

When they were eighteen Stiles started painting. His paintings were beautiful, and he caught the eye of an art dealer easy, and the money really helped he and his dad out, so that was great. But there was something about them, ethereal, haunting, like a silent scream, a scream of pain, agony, anguish, a scream of someone out of control in their own skin and rendered helpless. That scared Scott, some, especially since, although he never spaced out anymore, and he managed to babble endlessly like always, there was a desperate edge to everything he did, now, a vulnerability that just wasn't there before, and an easy acceptance for pain that made Scott's heart clench and his gut churn.

When they were eighteen, Stiles confessed he was seeing a taken man, casually as you please, and he and Stiles had gotten into a fight then, because adultery, of any kind? That's so _wrong_. Scott couldn't believe that Stiles could _do_ something like that. But he also didn't want to see Stiles hurt, and what if he fell in love with this man, what if this guy was just some affair-having swindler, what if he broke his best friend's heart? But Stiles had reminded him, later, when they both had cooler heads, that he could _feel_ what the other guy felt, that he walked into this eyes wide open, that it felt good, for him, sometimes, and for the other guy, too.

It wasn't anything but it kept his powers at bay, for a little while.

It wasn't anything but what Stiles _needed_.

And so, Scott, even though it rankled and he didn't think it would ever really sit right, let it go.

When they were nineteen his Mom and Stiles' dad got married, and they became _brothers_ , and it was _awesome_. Only, Stiles decided to move out soon after, to a little house out in the Preserve. And Scott ended up deciding to go to college with Allison. So, they were brothers, but they were growing up, and it felt a little bit like they were growing apart, too.

So, now they're twenty-one, Scott will be twenty-two soon, Stiles soon after, and Allison is visiting France with her Aunt, so Scott decides to go to Beacon Hills. He doesn't get there until the day after thanksgiving, but he still somehow expects Stiles to be there, vegged out on the couch or something. His Mom tells him, as little Claudette cries in her arms and solemnly declares that she _hates_ peanut butter today, and how could Mom _forget_ that?- His Mom tells him that Stiles, who is apparently engaged to Peter Hale- currently in a coma after having had a car accident _months_ ago Peter Hale- spent Thanksgiving with _his_ family, and hasn't been really coming around often at all.

Scott scruffs his little sister's muss of dark brown hair, kisses his Mom on the cheek, and heads over to Stiles' house, because he missed Stiles most out of all of them, and because he worries.

He always worries.

* * *

There's Stiles' bike in the driveway along with another vehicle, a Camaro, and Scott wonders briefly if he'll interrupt something, knocking on the door, but he knows that isn't Stiles' art dealer's car, so he thinks it probably isn't work or anything too important. Besides, he wants to surprise his brother.

So he knocks on the door.

The person who answers isn't really who Scott expects.

Imposing, tall, well-muscled, hazel eyes, thick eyebrows, intimidating as fuck, whether he's in a small door-frame or in the ring.

"Derek?" Scott asks, seriously confused for all of two seconds before he remembers, although it's still hard to believe, and hurts a little that Stiles never called and told him he was _engaged_ to a whole _person_. That he had to hear it from someone else.

"Oh! Right, technically you're, uh, Stiles' nephew-in-law-to-be, huh?" Scott flashes a dopey smile, Derek, on the other hand, winces minutely at the words like they were an accusation instead of an observation, and then his expression just shutters, closes off, blank, implacable. A little threatening, Scott thinks, when Derek ends up, slowly, ever so slowly, raising an eyebrow, as if to demand why Scott has the audacity to still be in front of him.

"I'm Scott," Scott tells him, then holds out a hand to shake, "Stiles is my best friend, technically my step-brother, now, but we've kind of been soulbrothers _forever_ , so."

Scott's hand hovers in the air where it's stretched out toward Derek, a friendly gesture, but Derek just frowns at it like it's a language he doesn't understand. Or a bug he wants to squish under his heel. Scott can't tell, Derek is hard to read.

"Um, okay," Scott says haltingly after a moment, letting his hand retreat to nervously rub the back of his neck, "is Stiles home?"

Derek swallows, turns, walks inside. Leaves the door open like an invitation, but he still hasn't said anything yet. Scott only hesitates for a moment before walking inside. Stiles is, apparently, in the kitchen, trying and mostly failing to make some horrible concoction that no one but him will ever actually _eat_ , and Derek sits at one of the bar stools placed in front of the square opening in the wall, his arms resting on the bottom of it, which serves as both a counter and a serving area. He picks up the book that had been tented and discarded in front of him, and starts reading.

"Stiles," Derek says, voice rough and deep and solid, but soft on the name. And maybe that's because Scott only ever heard him shouting orders and instructions in the gym, but he's just, he's never heard him sound like that before. Kinder, sweeter, a little bit like an apology.

"Der-ek," Stiles sing songs as he throws a handful of something indiscernible into a pot full of... something indiscernible. And Derek- and yeah, Scott only ever knew him by proximity, going to his Gym every day for, like, a summer and half the year after, and by just being in the same small town, but it's still something he's never seen before, something he didn't even think Derek's face could _do!_ \- smiles, huffs a small laugh, shaking his head, turning the page, but he doesn't say anything else.

Lets Stiles catch up on his own, and it's a little weird that Stiles would even need to, Scott realizes, because shouldn't he be _feeling_ that a person, a ball of emotion, got so much closer?

"Dude!" Scott crows, "I'm home!"

Stiles flails, huge, big, all limbs and shock and the wooden spoon flying (effortlessly dodged by Derek, who doesn't even seem surprised), drops of whatever he was stirring splattering his face and the wall.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Scott!" Stiles half-squeals, and then, like the awesome best friend he is, he's vaulting through that opening in the wall and throwing himself into Scott's arms with a peel of laughter.

"Scotty! When'd you get in!"

"Just a few hours ago," he tells him, wrapping him in his arms and breathing in his familiar scent.

Stiles laughs again as he pulls away, and then lands a soft punch on his arm, "Why the fuck didn't you _call_ me?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, it worked, asshole," Stiles grouses as he goes off into the living room to find the spoon.

"Hey, you surprised me first, man. Speaking of, congrats!"

"On what?" Stiles asks as he takes the spoon back into the kitchen to rinse it off, Derek, eyes still on the book, goes unnaturally still.

"On _what_? Dude, you're engaged! How come you never told me?"

Stiles freezes for about three seconds, and then turns back to him, smile on his lips but nowhere near his eyes, "Ah. Well. I didn't think you'd approve."

"Why? I mean, he's older, sure, but he's an awesome lawyer, and even _I_ have to admit he's pretty hot. Look at you, moving up."

"Yeah, sure." Stiles doesn't seem convinced, which is... odd?

"Hey, what's up? You got cold feet? Or is it because he's in a- well- you know- with the-"

"Coma," Stiles finishes helpfully, Scott smiles at him, happy to be with his friend again, though he's still full of concern.

"So what is it?"

And Stiles, Stiles looks directly at Derek, who's looked up from his book now, and their eyes catch, and there's something there. Something undefinable that Scott can't see, doesn't understand, but it _means_ something.

"Second thoughts." Stiles declares with an odd sort of effort, like it's hard to say, but he's determined as fuck to say it anyway, like he _needs_ to put it out there, make it real. Derek's eyes widen, he looks honestly stunned breathless.

"Well, you know me," Scott says, trying to break a tension that isn't exactly uncomfortable, just something he doesn't get, it feels kind of huge, though, and Scott feels a little like, maybe, he's intruding on something, though fuck all knows _what_ , "I'm on your side no matter what."

He's a little worried Derek is about to start decking people and he'll have to protect Stiles from the offended family member when the man asks, a little strangled, "Second thoughts?"

Stiles holds his breath for a second, Scott tries to discreetly get into a defensive position.

"Yeah."

And Scott is seriously ready to throw down when Derek gets up so fast his chair gets knocked over, but before Scott has a chance to do _anything_ Derek has rounded the wall separating them and pulled Stiles into a bone-crushing hug, there's so much force to it that Stiles lets out a little 'oof' even as he goes to return it.

"Okay," Derek breathes, nuzzling into Stiles' neck with a furrowed brow and eyes shut tight against the rest of the world, then, inexplicably, "Thank _fuck_."

"I think you were right, this time, Der," Stiles says, a little giddy, a little breathless, and it sounds like he's smiling, "I think it's gonna be okay."

And Derek chokes out a laugh that might also be a sob, Stiles is shushing him, giving him comforting little pats with one hand while the other makes little shooing gestures at Scott and... Scott thinks he maybe gets it now.

He's not really sure he approves, and he's definitely just the slightest bit miffed that they probably won't be able to catch up tomorrow, but he doesn't need to be asked twice. And he's totally grilling the hell out of his brother the _second_ he gets the chance, and then he's going to install Skype on _every electronic device_ he owns, because Scott obviously needs to be updated _daily_.

* * *

Stiles just wants to breathe. He wants his freedom back. He wants his life back. He doesn't even really know when he lost it, lost control of it. Maybe it was that day he almost drowned. Maybe it was the day he met Peter. Maybe it was the first time he forgave the man for hurting him when it _wasn't_ for sex, and he _didn't_ consent. Maybe it was the first time he let it go that Peter didn't _stop_ when he used the safeword. When he begged him to.

And he wants Derek. He wants _everything_ that Derek is. He wants to be like the koi swimming in Derek's eyes. He wants to swim in that water and never, ever have to leave.

And maybe it is okay, like Derek says, or, maybe it _will_ be.

And maybe he can be selfish. Just this once. And get away with it.

Because he knows the idea of what they're doing, while Peter is still an ever-present threat? He knows it's killing Derek. Can see it in his eyes. And maybe it'll hurt just as much for him to become the scorn of his own family, if it comes to that, but at least they'd be doing it together.

At least they'd be _in_ it together.

Because Stiles has no doubts, that Derek will forever be on his side.

He can _feel_ it, intense, overwhelming, right there in his bones.

So it's selfish and it's terrifying, but he's his mother's Mischief, and he's going to let the water take him anyway.

He's going to be _free_ again.

Damn Peter. Damn him for hurting him, damn him for hurting Derek, damn him for that half assed proposal, and damn him for the stupid ring that he couldn't even put on Stiles' finger himself.

That's what Stiles is thinking, when he pulls away from Derek's hug, while Derek is feeling so much wonder and joy and gratitude and compassion and longing and need, and he starts to take it off.

Derek stills his hands between them, sniffles, swallows, uses blunt, masculine fingers to slip the plain gold band off, and then he reaches over Stiles' shoulder and throws it in the pot before he puts the lid on and sets it to simmer, all this while keeping hold of his now naked hand.

Then Derek looks down at him, tear-stained face, and he kisses his now naked hand first, right where the ring was supposed to be, before he brushes their lips together, swallows again and breathes against his lips, reverent as anything, a plea:

"I want you."

"I'm yours," Stiles manages, around the lump in his throat and his wildly beating heart, "I've been yours from the very beginning, Der. You have me."

"Mine." Derek sounds awed, like this is too good to be true, like it might just be a dream as he laces their fingers together and cups his cheek with his other hand, searches his face like he might be looking for the lie, and he's so open, broken, scared just like Stiles was. Is.

Stiles takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with wood and forest and fall and petrichor and loam, and presses up against the man he loves, kisses him sound, teases lips open with a tongue, goes in deep and fierce and passionate and _aching_.

"Yours," Stiles tells him, then, because he needs to ask, "Mine?"

" _Fuck_ , Stiles. Yes. Of course, always. Always."

And then Derek is taking his mouth, slow, dominating, like it's something he's just discovered and he wants to know every last bit of it. His hands find Stiles' hips, move to squeeze his ass and grind their cocks together as Derek nips at Stiles' tongue and Stiles lets out a helpless little mewling sound.

Derek growls, something Stiles can feel under his hands where they're pressed against his chest, and then Derek is lifting him up by his thighs and Stiles has no choice but to squeak (which he will not be admitting to later, by the way), and wrap his legs around the man's waist, his arms around his neck. Derek smiles up at him, smug.

And Stiles wants it, he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life, and he wants this man flustered, too, so he pants, low and husky in his ear.

"Take me, Der," grinding against him with all he has and biting back a moan, "I want to feel you _inside_. I want you to _fuck_ me, Alpha, _please_."

Derek whines, high and needy, and Stiles feels a burst of want so depraved and strong it has him canting his hips almost involuntarily as his head falls back. Derek groans at the sight of his bare throat and sucks a mark there even as he starts walking them to the stairs, but he's having too much trouble focusing, and a flare of impatience and _lustloveneedwantmatemine_ is all Stiles gets as warning before they're crashing, wanton, into the wall.

Derek ruts into him, pressing him back up against the wall, caging him in, sucking marks into his pulse point while a possessive sound, pleased and unsatisfied all at once, rumbles through him.

" _Stiles_ ," he groans, like he's a little lost, a little helpless right now, too. So Stiles takes his face in his hands and kisses him, hard, chases the taste of cinnamon and the french toast he had this morning and something earthier, something deeper, something that's just _Derek_.

"Der," Stiles breathes, hitched, because this is it, this is the man he loves, who loves him too, and he isn't Under right now, and they're not doing this out of lust or obligation or priority or violence. This isn't a transaction or a comforting act that goes just a little bit beyond friendship. This is _them_ , right here, right now, crashing into each other as if there was never anything for it.

"Baby," Derek whines, licks a stripe up his cheek, swallows the brine of his tears, "shh, baby, it's gonna be okay."

"Need you, I need you, _please_. Make it _real_. Show me I'm _yours_. I wanna be _yours_ , Der, you gotta, you gotta-"

Derek is breathless and whimpering and kissing him deep, biting, fucking orgasmic as he grabs Stiles' hips hard enough to bruise and half _runs_ up the goddamned stairs.

And it's _so_ much, almost too much, because Stiles can feel what Derek is feeling too, and it's so fucking intense, binding them in a circle of deep, hard, aching emotion, drowning them both.

* * *

Derek shreds as many of their clothes as he can on their way to the bedroom, mostly their shirts. He kisses Stiles fiercely, blown over by the emotion of it, the _sheer_ fucking relief. He can feel, and smell, the slick coming out of Stiles, dampening his jeans, making them stick to Derek's hands, scenting the air with thick, rich, willow tree sap and something bird-feather soft and blue and pretty and Derek thinks it might be love, that he's smelling, mingled with everything else inherently _Stiles_ and _sex_.

"You smell so good," Derek tells him, barely anything but subvocal growl at this point, as he tosses him onto the bed and he lands with a bounce. Stiles is looking at him with hooded whiskey-burn eyes, spreading his legs, trembling a little, panting, wet mouth open and red and bruised.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, my little Empath."

Stiles lets his head fall back and his hips buck up at that, palming himself a little with a moan. Derek swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He clambers onto the bed, sliding easily in the space Stiles has made for him between his legs.

"You want this?" He has to ask it, has to be absolutely sure, would never ever hurt him.

"Yes, _yes_ , please, please. Alpha. _My_ Alpha."

Stiles grabs his face in his hands and pulls him down, knocks their foreheads together, takes a deep breath and holds it, just for a few moments. Something he always does when he's nervous, or he needs to say something and he doesn't know how, is having a hard time getting it out. Derek swallows, refrains from just ripping off their respective pants and finally, _finally_ getting release. Feeling Stiles, skin on skin. He's been wanting it for so long, and now, now he's _allowed_.

 _He's mine._ Derek thinks, giddy off of it.

_I'm his._

_His Alpha._

And then Stiles says, voice sex-rough, and heartbreakingly, hauntingly, _beautifully_ raw:

"Make _love_ to me."

And Derek knows, in that instant, their eyes locked on each other's, that this is something he's never asked for before. That it's something he's never _had_.

 _Make love to me,_ he says, almost as if he can't even believe anybody _can_.

He says, while his whole body shakes with desperation and want and anxiety that maybe Derek would deny him, could _ever_ deny him this.

Derek doesn't think there's anything he can _say_ to that, so he just feels, he feels his love for the man underneath him, how he needs him, wants him, doesn't think he can quite live without him anymore, and he nips at Stiles' bottom lip, slides a hand up, around is throat, collaring him with it, adding just the lightest bit of pressure, and Stiles' arms go lax as they swing around his neck, his body relaxing, head lolling back submissively.

He thinks this is the most intimate he's ever been with anyone, because this is so much _more_ than he's ever felt for anyone else.

This is his person, his Omega, his Empath, his love, his _Mate_.

"I've got you," he says, and he doesn't think he'll ever let go, not after this, he won't be able to.

His other hand slides down, unbuttons, unzips, squeezes Stiles' ass to get him to arch, grind up against his hip, his thigh, with a dangerously lascivious moan which Derek takes advantage of to dive back into Stiles' mouth, all teeth and tongue and warm, Gods, it's so warm.

Were kisses supposed to feel like this? Like coming home? He doesn't know, he can barely think with the heady scent of them, of sex, musk-lake-love-willow-loam-sap. He slides Stiles' pants down, gently as he can even in his haste, and it takes a moment for them to untangle each other long enough for his pants to go off, Derek's too, since he's at it.

And then they're both naked, sweat-sheen, skin and flush and rock-hard. Derek puts both his hands on Stiles' calves, kneading them as he watches Stiles make slow abortive thrusts in the air, his dick swollen against his belly, his ass glistening with slick, sap-sweet-honey- _lust_ so enticing in the air. Derek moves his hands, massaging tension out of Stiles' legs as Stiles pants, his mouth open wide, eyes rolled up in the back of his head, throat fluttering with shallow breaths.

Derek spreads one leg to the side, takes the other and hooks Stiles' knee over his shoulder, biting, laving, kissing down the flesh of his thigh, further and further until he's tasting the slick on his tongue, spreading Stiles' cheeks. Stiles makes a noise, low, a little startled, satisfied, his scent spiking impossibly more, already so fucking aroused, and it makes Derek whine to be this close to it, to where it's strongest.

He licks the perfect, glistening, inviting pucker of Stiles' hole and is pleased to feel the shiver that rolls through his Omega when his tongue slips just past the ring of muscle, which convulses under his ministrations just as Stiles jerks with a quiet cry. Stiles tastes like fucking heaven, intoxicating, and Derek wonders if he could come from this, spit and slick dripping down his chin, this taste, like nothing any mere words could possibly explain, and the smell of him as Derek fucks him open with his tongue.

 _'Yeah,'_ he thinks to himself brokenly as he swallows down the wet-warm-silk-sweet of Stiles' slick, _'yeah, I probably could.'_

He kisses, nibbles, licks at the hole as Stiles twitches and whines and moans and _shakes apart_ until he's nothing but a trembling, whimpering, begging mess. Begging for Derek to fuck him, to come inside, to fucking kiss him and _do it_ already. That he can't even keep quiet during something like this, that he's being so demanding and so submissive under his touch all at once? That, that just makes Derek smile.

He presses one last, filthy, biting kiss to Stiles' ass before he slides a finger inside, Stiles clenching around the intrusion instinctively before he opens up for him with a sigh, easy as anything, the warm soaked give, the muscles fluttering, and Stiles letting out a little keening mewl.

Derek kisses his way up to the Omega's mouth, only to have his face caught with shaky, trembling hands as Stiles grins up at him, his eyes so, so soft, so very bright and open and serene, Derek's breath hitches at the overwhelming fondness he finds there.

"Oh, my god, Der," Stiles giggles breathlessly, and it sounds like sparrows singing, like flight and something pure, so silvery and innocent and helpless and pretty, it makes Derek's heartbeat faster, it makes him think of really _really_ spending forever with this man. It makes him wonder what this house would look like with their cubs, with years of their life in it together, with their scents blended and saturating _everything_.

And Stiles feels it, must do because suddenly his breath gets caught in his throat and he's looking up at Derek wide-eyed and just a little searching, like he's asking how, how something so simple could ever make him feel that way. And Derek wants to tell him _'It's you, I'll never stop falling in love with you.'_

Stiles takes a deep breath, pitches his voice low, throaty, and just a little wrecked, and admonishes in a rasp: "Messy."

Then he's lapping up the mess of his own slick, of Derek's spit running in rivulets down Derek's chin, down his throat. Derek groans shakily, because fuck if that's not the hottest thing. And he doesn't even hesitate, baring his throat to his Mate, it's more than instinct, but it's less than a conscious decision, it's just natural.

He's belonged to Stiles for awhile, now, anyway. Offering up the most vulnerable part of himself as a wolf is hardly even a leap at this point. And Stiles, Stiles knows what this means, of _course_ he does, he went about researching everything he could on werewolves as soon as he found out they existed, and for a moment he just stares in wonder at what Derek's doing. And then he makes this low, bitten off distressed little whimper as he simultaneously licks long stripes up the length of Derek's pulse point and grinds down _hard_ on Derek's fingers.

Derek gasps, leans in to take hold of Stiles' mouth again, aftertaste of slick sugar-sweet on their tongues, Derek chases it, hungry, as he pushes a third finger into Stiles and crooks them, finds the nub of his prostate and Stiles half screams with the shock of it, back bowing off the bed.

"Derek!" Stiles exclaims breathlessly, "I'm ready, I'm ready, please, _please_ Der. I need you, I want you inside, please, pl-" he's cut off by his own gasping moan as Derek hits his prostate with blunt fingers again. Stiles' arms are wrapped around his neck, his head fallen back and lolling on the pillow, his face contorted in pleasure, and Derek honestly thinks he's never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

"Are you sure, baby?" Derek murmurs, wrapping his free hand around Stiles' neck, squeezing gently just to elicit another moan.

" _Fuck_ ," Stiles sounds absolutely destroyed at this point, Derek's not doing much better, really, "Yes."

Derek slips his fingers out, cooing and hushing when Stiles whimpers and wriggles at the loss.

"Take a deep breath for me, baby boy," and Stiles does, it's shaky, but he does. "Hold it, there you are, just like that. So good. So good for me, my good boy."

And then he's sliding himself inside that, open, wet, gorgeous warmth, Stiles easing open and yet still so tight around him, and he has to bite back a growl, a groan, some subvocal, inhuman noise of pleasure to grind out: "Let it out, now, good boy. Such a good boy, my baby. Gods. It feels so fucking _good_ inside you."

Stiles pants, Derek can feel his throat fluttering in sync with his hole under his hand and growls as he thrusts in just a little deeper. Stiles lets out a high pitched keening cry when he finally bottoms out, the Omega grinding his hips up to catch Derek's dick on his prostate as slick and sweat covered legs wrap tightly around his waist.

"Claws," Stiles begs, awe and something low, quietly timid, incredibly desperate in his voice "gimme your claws, Der."

Derek's breath is shaky and rasped with something subvocal and soft, not unlike a purr, as he lets his claws bleed out on the hand not wrapped around Stiles' neck and ghosts them along his Mate's ribs.

"This what you want, baby? What you need?"

"Yes, yes! Fuck, yeah, please, Der," Stiles mewls, moans, and absolutely fucking _melts_ under the touch, then, thighs squeezing to punctuate it, he begs, "harder, c'mon, _more_."

He pulls out and thrusts in hard, going at just the right angle to hit Stiles' prostate and make him cry out deliciously as Derek rakes his claws up, the rich-wine of blood pebbling up and adding to their already intoxicating scent. Derek's seriously getting _drunk_ off of this. He cants his hips, keeping up the vigorous pace, the gentle scratching of his claws and the occasional squeeze of Stiles' throat, whispering soft, soothing, filthy things into his Mate's ear.

He can feel the urgency pulling him, coiling in his gut and making his muscles tense, his hips stutter, his dick throbbing inside warm-wet flesh.

"I'm coming," Stiles breathes in an airy, thready voice, and it's that, along with Stiles grasping his shoulders and pulling him down for a passionate, starved sort of kiss, that puts him over the edge. Has him thrusting in hard and groaning into the kiss as his orgasm crashes into him, pulses throughout his veins, makes his wolf sing victory and love and sated need to _claimbreedmatemineminemine_.

"Mine," he gasps shakily, even as his muscles still convulse, even as he feels the knot growing at the base of his cock as he empties into Stiles.

"Yours," Stiles whimpers, coming down from his own aftershocks, pulling Derek into another kiss, slower, more languid, and saltier, with just as much desperation, although, Derek suspects, the reasons for it are entirely different, now.

"Hey, shh. Hey, hey, are you okay?" He murmurs, connected so fully, in such a base and primal and _satisfying_ way, kissing tears from his cheeks.

"I'm _free_ ," Stiles tells him, exultant, like he never ever expected to be. And he looks so _joyful_ , immaculate, and _holy_ in this moment, cheeks still a lush red, lips and neck bruised and bitten, sweaty, fucked-out, blissful and _smiling_.

Smiling as if he's never smiled before in his life. It's the best smile Derek has ever seen, the most beautiful, and the first time he's ever seen it grace his face. Those sun-soaked eyes could light up a fucking stadium all on their own.

"You're _free_ ," Derek agrees, grinning down at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squeeeeee, lol, our boys did the do! Churrah! lmfao
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! This, I think, is my favorite chapter, mostly because multiple POV is _the bomb_. But also because, ahg, the flangst, all the flangst.


	4. Rapunzel Doesn't Need To Let Down Her Hair (The Big Bad Wolf Blew That Tower Down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly a flangsty intermission, more fluff than angst, but still, lol.
> 
> Ahhhhhhhhh, I've left hints for big plot things to come! I wonder if anyone can guess?

Rapunzel Doesn't Need To Let Down Her Hair (The Big Bad Wolf Blew That Tower _Down_ )

* * *

They've both cleaned themselves up, now, made love twice more and cleaned up again. Stiles can't help the smile he hides into Derek's shoulder as he cuddles into his side, both of them naked, both of them finally together, close like this, without any barriers between them...

Well, except maybe one.

" _Stiles_."

"Hmm?"

"You smelled happy, and now you don't. What's wrong?" Derek murmurs, drawing him close until his breath is tickling Stiles' hair.

"I'm worried," Stiles confides, "about your family. I don't want you to lose any of them, I don't want any of them to be angry with you for this, for what we have."

"Stiles." Derek sighs, and the Empath can feel the surge of warmth and affection and devotion wrapping around him as sure and strong as the arms that cradle him, and he finds himself looking up at his lover, whose face is uncharacteristically vulnerable, here, in this hope-quiet between them. Blue-green eyes sparkle, fish-scale flecks catching the setting sun as it paints streaks of purple-gray across their bodies.

"How do you _do_ that?" Stiles breathes, awed.

Derek smiles, and Stiles feels some sort of ache from him, something deep, and then a crest of wonder and relief and incredulous-ness that tastes a little like _'How could you possibly not know?'_ Before the man pulls him into a long, languid, deep sort of kiss that leaves Stiles breathless when he pulls away to say:

"I love you, Stiles Stilinski."

Stiles' eyes go wide and his breath stutters because he _knew_ that, he knew it, but he'd never thought Derek would say it _out loud_. As if that were a step too far. One blessing too much. But there it is, and Derek is still smiling at him and there isn't even the slightest _hint_ of expectation.

Because Derek doesn't care whether or not Stiles says it back, feels it too.

He just _loves_ him.

And there's something about that, something trusting and kind and sweet that propels Stiles to say, "Jesus, I love you, too."

It's Derek's turn to go wide-eyed, but Stiles is giddy, he's elated, he's so far _gone_ on this man, and he's laughing when he moves to kiss him again. The floodgates are open, now, he can't bring himself to stop. Wouldn't want to, anyway.

"I love you, I-" another kiss, Derek's still frozen but there's this heartbreaking joy that's starting to build right below his chest, Stiles can feel it- "so, so much, Der. I think I loved you the moment I saw you."

He kisses him deeper, now, and Derek finally unfreezes, grabs him by the hips and turns them over, dominating the kiss, nipping Stiles' lip, sucking at his tongue, desperate and excited and just so fucking _happy_.

* * *

Derek is cooking them breakfast because, thankfully, Stiles is too achy ("In all the good ways, Der, you didn't hurt me, hush.") and tired to actually stand, much less cook. Which Derek is counting as a win because the man he loves? _Terrible_ cook. Honestly, just, Gods awful.

Said love is sitting on one of the bar-stools behind the passthrough window between the kitchen and the living room/dining room staring contemplatively at the now mostly-clean pot sitting on the serving-bar/window ledge.

They didn't even save whatever monstrosity it was he was trying to make, however indignant Stiles may be about wasting food, that was just plain inedible. But, though the pot has been thoroughly washed after the ordeal, there's now a half-melted golden ring stuck securely inside the bottom of the thing, a mottled, warped, round little lump.

Stiles leans his elbows on the counter on either side of the pot and frowns down at the lump. Then he pokes it, and, inexplicably, smiles.

Wind-swept willows, twilight melted into lake water and the softest kind of lullabies. Pleased, content Omega.

Derek's wolf is practically purring in contentment.

"Der," Stiles calls softly, and his scent starts to sour, just a little, but enough.

"What is it, baby?"

Stiles grins at the endearment before becoming solemn again, and sighs.

"I know you want to know, about Peter and my... relationship. A relationship I don't plan on continuing, by the way. Like. At all. I seriously want to be yours forever."

Derek feels so many overjoyed, soaring, love-addled emotions at that that Stiles flushes a particularly attractive shade of pink and squeals, "Der! Are you gonna be like this all the time now? Just... Silently- Jesus, there isn't even a word for it."

Derek blinks at him a few times, blank expression set firmly in place for a few more moments before he breaks it with the widest grin he's _ever_ felt spread across his face.

"Well, with you proclaiming your love for me like that, I can hardly help it, can I?"

Stiles shakes his head, but his own smile is blinding, and he's not fooling anybody.

Derek is secretly a little shit. He can't even bring himself to care.

He's still grinning like a love-addled fool when he turns back to the bacon he's cooking.

When the food's been finished and they've moved to the actual dining table, which is a small little thing, a white wicker-weave square affair that would only sit four people comfortably and has been put up against the wall under a bay window that looks out at the Preserve behind the house, white curtains framing both it and the table in a way that's almost enchanting.

There are only two chairs, mismatched but warm looking, on either side of the table, and Derek vaguely wonders if that's because Stiles doesn't often have people over. He tries not to be charmed by the paint and charcoal stains on the table and fails entirely.

They're eating quietly, Stiles looking back over at the pot still sitting on the bar every three seconds, his scent steadily growing grit-clay-rough before he finally, sombrely says:

"I want to tell you. I _have_ to tell you."

Derek swallows. He's been looking for evidence, he's been wanting to know, but now that it seems like he's about to get a confession? He's suddenly terrified. Not for himself, never for himself, but...

"It's okay Stiles, you don't-"

"Yes. Yes, I do. Because... If we do this. If we do this you could be going against your whole family for me, your _Pack_. We have no idea how they're going to react to me canceling my engagement with him, how they're going to feel about us pursuing... _us_. And I know you've been curious, but it's more than that, Derek. I'm- I'm _fucked up_.

"And there's still a chance, now, you know? For you to rid yourself of my smell or whatever and get out of this unscathed. But if we really. If _you_ really-"

"Stiles," Derek breathes, getting up out of his chair and turning Stiles' until he's facing out and Derek can kneel in front of him, hands kneading the other man's knees, "Stiles. I don't _want_ an out. You can _feel_ me. I _love_ you. I am so stupidly in love with you. I kept thinking, when you were still- I kept thinking I was going to lose you as soon as he woke up, and you _know_ , you know how much that was killing me."

Stiles cups his face with trembling hands, and says, tremulous, as he presses their foreheads together, "Yeah."

"I _never_ want to _lose_ you."

"I don't want you to lose _them_ , either," Stiles chokes out, soft and wet.

Derek sighs, reaches up to wrap a hand around Stiles' neck, collaring him with it, "Deep breath, baby," he murmurs. Stiles immediately settles some, scent of unshed tears receding and panicked heartbeat easing.

"That's it. Good boy," Derek praises, and then, after a few moments, softly, and because he does, "I know."

Stiles takes one of his hands from Derek's cheek to wrap it around the hand he has around his throat, "Thanks."

"It'll be okay, baby."

Stiles coughs out a small, choked sort of laugh and Derek smiles at him. A laughing Omega is better than a crying one, at any rate.

"I _have_ to tell you," Stiles says again, voice small.

Derek swallows, massages the tendons on Stiles' long, pale, fragile neck, and closes his eyes.

"Okay."

* * *

It's... hard to hear it all.

It takes most of the day, and they've relocated to the couch, snuggling by the end of it, because Stiles on top of him was apparently the only way he could keep himself from wolfing out and running half-shifted to his Uncle's hospital room to rip his throat out. With his teeth.

Stiles has been with Peter since he was sixteen. And Stiles had needed someone, something, to help him with his Empathy. He'd found out with an old partner he'd dated for a while, a Beta named Danny, that going Under, like a traditional Omega, _worked_. But he also... He hadn't been in a great place, when Peter found him, and he'd asked for that, and they'd just sort of... tumbled into it together.

Peter, apparently, hadn't been in a great place either, but considering how much older he was, that's no fucking excuse.

What they had became familiar, it became something Stiles honestly felt he not only needed, but deserved. Because what he was, it allowed him to see into people's hearts. It allowed him to see the people who were monsters all around him, and the people in pain, and the people, terrified, sad, horrified, scared. And he did _nothing_.

He'd even run, sometimes, hidden from whatever it was despite however it would haunt him.

And he _needed_. The pain, going Under, being able to have a moment where he was _himself_. Peter had needed somewhere to be himself too. So that was what they offered each other.

Only... Only who Peter really was? Inside, underneath his skin? Was... _Wretched_.

There were times when he'd _raped_ him, times when he'd hurt him without consent, times when Stiles had almost _died_ from what they'd done together.

("How... Why, Stiles? _Why_ would you stay with him?"

"Because I thought it was what I deserved, and because I thought... better he does this to _me_. He was my _cage_ , Der, and I was so much more terrified of _freedom_ , of being on my _own_ again, that I just. I stayed. And I think, maybe, part of me wanted him to."

Derek already knew what the answer to his question would be before he asked it, but he asked anyway, swallowing the bile and the tears and the _ache_ in his chest that was threatening to tear him apart.

"To what, Stiles?" It was barely more than a cracked, hoarse, petrified whisper.

"To kill me.")

The scars that decorated Stiles' body were all given by Peter's hand, and Derek suspects, many of the scars in his mind, too.

Derek's throat feels raw and dry and scratchy, his cheeks are itchy with dried tears, and his bones feel hollow, his whole body wrung out from the day. But there's a sleeping little Omega in his arms who has put more trust in him than anyone he's ever met, and who loves him for all that he is, and who he loves in return with all of his being.

So he just cuddles him closer and breathes him in, and promises in the dark-quiet of a room filled with canvas and paint and _lovegriefMate_ that he will never, _ever_ , let this man go.

* * *

Scott meets Stiles for coffee at a local bakery about two days after their slightly awkward reunion. Stiles is sitting with a soft, tired smile, and pleased sun-soaked eyes, having already ordered coffee for both of them.

"You're having an affair on your fiancé," Scott feels the need to point out as soon as he sits down, because he's been stewing on the information ever since he found out, "with his _nephew_."

"He was having an affair on your girlfriend's Aunt," Stiles retorts, sounding amused and exhausted in equal parts, "with me. And, I was a minor at the time. There were consent issues. Hell, there were consent issues even _after_ I turned 18."

"Wait," Scott says, incredulous and baffled and suddenly appalled, " _he_ was the taken man you were dating when you were 18?! And you were dating him _before_ then?!"

Stiles leans back in his chair, setting his coffee on the knee of the leg he has crossed over the other, twisting the cup around and around in his hands. "Taken man," he snorts, because he's always thought that turn of phrase was outdated, before taking a long gulp of his drink and then setting it back down on his knee.

"It was fucked up, Scotty. My relationship with Peter, I didn't even realize it until I had to lay it all out bare, but it was fucking _volatile_."

"Stiles... Did he hurt you? I swear to god if he-"

"Yes."

And for a minute Scott's heart stops beating. Because he _noticed_ the bruises, the depression, the weird behavior. He noticed and he didn't _do_ anything.

"I'm a terrible big brother," he decides, although big is a bit of an overstatement, since their birthdays are only a few months apart.

"No you're not," Stiles tells him, earnest despite the shadows hidden in his eyes. "You couldn't have known, Scott. I didn't _want_ you to. But I'm. I'm doing better, now. I think I'm gonna need a _lot_ of therapy, and I'm going to have to find someone who knows enough about the supernatural to be qualified to deal with an Empath, but. I'm doing _better_."

Scott smiles at him, although it may wobble just a bit, "That's so good, buddy. I'm proud of you."

"Can you be happy for me, too? For me and Derek? 'Cause I'm kinda... stupid in love with him."

"I'll try, but if he ever hurts you like his Uncle did- god, does he even know?"

"He's part of the only reason _I_ know."

"Okay. Okay- I may, I may have to thank him later, _after_ I give him the shovel talk."

Stiles giggles.

Scott may or may not be secretly plotting how to destroy one comatose Peter Hale.

* * *

John is surprised that his wayward son, who so often avoids him these days, decides to come over for dinner a week after Thanksgiving. One of the first Thanksgivings he didn't spend with them, deigning instead to favor his fiancé's family with his presence for the holidays.

Which John guessed he could kind of understand, given the extenuating circumstances. Admittedly, even _he_ was still fuzzy on Peter Hale's relationship with his son. He knew Stiles had been in a relationship with _someone_ ever since he was 18, but as far as the Sheriff knew, Peter had been in a relationship with Kate Argent at that time. And then, seamlessly, almost around the exact same time Kate had left the older Hale, his son had become engaged to him.

It was all very worrying and suspicious, especially paired with Stiles' somewhat dubious mental health over the years and his abilities and his general penchant for trouble, not to mention how he's been distancing himself from them.

And then the car crash had happened, and Peter had become comatose. John couldn't fault Stiles for how he spent most of his time by his husband-to-be's bedside, let alone for how he seemed to need to bond with his new, inherited family.

Those worries and suspicions? They did not ease _at all_ when his son knocked on the door, no ring on his finger, eyes haunted and a little chased, but also somehow settled and pleased. Behind him and a little to his right, Derek Hale, a tall, muscular, looming presence with a permanent scowl painted across his face.

And then Stiles barrels on in, inviting them both to dinner and explaining as nonchalantly as possible that he's breaking off the engagement with Peter and is currently dating his nephew, and that'll have to be that because he's saying no more on the matter.

Shocked, appalled, faintly horrified, these are the emotions that pass through John's mind at the revelation. And he wants to ask, he wants to _know_ what's going on, because, seriously? Isn't it cruel to dump your fiancé while he's comatose? And for a _family member_ , no less.

But he also knows Stiles hasn't even told him the full story on _that_ yet. It seriously feels like he barely even knows who his son is anymore.

So, he tries to muster up whatever happiness he can scrounge at being able to see his beloved son after so long, tells him tightly that it doesn't matter as long as he's happy, and directs them both to the backyard where he'd been barbequing, and where Melissa and Claudette are waiting for them.

Over the course of cooking and eating with them, several interesting things happen.

Melissa and John, for the first part of the meal, can't help tossing each other questioning glances, and tossing Derek less than amicable stares. He and his wife _both_ want to know more. But Stiles, babbling incessantly, manages to skirt the subject almost every time.

"Does _his_ family know? I mean, that you want to break the engagement, at least?" John finally asks, helplessly, too exasperated to keep the curiosity at bay. "Because this is a pretty big deal, son."

"No," Stiles answers lowly. "No, they don't know yet, but I plan on telling them- _we_ plan on telling them. Soon. And I _know_ how important this is. Jesus, do you really think that would escape me? I mean you, you and I we've barely talked ever since you married Melissa but. For Derek? I mean what if I. What if I'm the reason he loses- _fuck_."

Melissa doesn't even admonish him on his language, though she does quietly inform their daughter that that is a bad word, never to be repeated.

John is both hurt and a little offended by what Stiles'd said about their relationship, but it was true, wasn't it? He'd focused so much time and energy on his new wife and daughter he'd almost completely lost sight of who Stiles is, now. And that's put into even clearer perspective by the fact that his son seems on the verge of a panic attack.

John thought he'd grown out of them, didn't think he'd had one in _years_. And he's ten seconds away from rocketing out of his chair to calm him down when-

Derek's knuckles brush the side of Stiles' neck, draw his attention to him, their eyes light on each other like some profound magnetic force, and he's never seen anything like it before, two people so absorbed in each other that their eyes swallow the other's soul.

"Breathe, baby," Derek murmurs, and just like that Stiles does. "That's it," Derek praises, and the smile, soft, serene, besotted devotion, is one John could've never believed possible on the Alpha's face if he hadn't seen it himself, "good boy."

And then, with tender fingers uncharacteristic on a man more regularly known for his capacity with violence and boxing, Derek hooks a wild brown curl behind Stiles' ear and kisses his temple, a quiet, chaste, lingering thing, before he offers the sheriff a withering glare that very succinctly states: _'Bring that up again and I won't mind being arrested for assaulting an officer. It'll be fucking worth it.'_

This is just making John even _more_ curious.

Well, but he does have the decency, especially when Melissa shoots him a hard look that could almost match Derek's glower, to wince and feel chagrined.

"Sorry," he mutters, to no one in particular.

John notices that whenever Stiles gets too excited, be it in a good way or a bad way, over something, that Derek lightly drags his knuckles along the side of the Omega's neck. It settles him every time, he arches almost imperceptibly for it when it happens, and Derek always ends up smiling, not with his mouth, but just in his eyes, looking at Stiles with an overwhelming sort of fondness.

They have a way about them, Stiles bouncing off of Derek's quiet with all the ease of long-practice, going hushed and earnest whenever Derek actually does talk. Derek managing Stiles' babbling and flailing with those hints of a smile, shadowing his every movement, always prepared to protect or defend or just- weirdly enough, because more often than not an Alpha wouldn't go against their instincts in this way- sit back and let Stiles fight his own battles.

John notices, too, that when, halfway through the meal, Stiles has barely touched his food, Derek doesn't even say anything, or look concerned, he just takes the second it requires to take hand Stiles has in his and guide it to a utensil before replacing his own hand with said utensil and squeezing Stiles' fingers, to which Stiles responds by throwing a happy, exhausted sort of grin at him. Derek, surprisingly, lets his face melt into an enamored, half-desperately-in-love half-heart-wrenching-worry, secret sort of smile at that, and, for a moment, something like understanding passes between them. Stiles kisses him, then, chaste and sound, decidedly tucking into a bit of food before he continues talking.

He kind of wonders how Derek isn't exhausted by the end of the meal (lord knows he and Melissa are), when more than half of Stiles' endless bubbled up words were toward him, he'd nearly hit the Alpha in the face several times with all of his frenetic flailing, and he'd almost fallen over at least three times for the same reason. Each time he lost balance, though, without even looking away from his food, Derek had caught him, righted him and rubbed a soothing circle into his back. And Stiles would just continue talking and flailing and fidgeting like that's what he fully intended to happen.

John really can't help but make the correlation, because they're already _acting_ like it- no bite marks, no visible bonds, but they're already acting fully Mated. In an untraditional way, maybe, considering Derek is letting Stiles be a whole hell of a lot more dominating than most Alphas would, but the calming, gentling touches, the way Stiles seems to _rely_ on him and trust in him, the way Derek takes it all with the strength and poise of someone who's _earned_ it, and the humbled responsibility of someone who not only wanted it but wanted to _keep_ it? 

It reminds him of the ancient stories of True-Mates, people genuinely fated together by myths and gods. It reminds him of Claudia, how she used to tease that that was what they were, who used to tell him he wasn't just her Alpha he was her Anchor, her tether to her own emotions in a sea of other peoples.

But he still isn't sure. He still doesn't have enough information. _Why_ was Stiles with Peter in the first place if it was so easy to leave him? And for how _long_ , anyway? How had he managed to fall in love with his (now ex-)fiancé's nephew? And when? And how in the hell had they gotten so _incredibly, intensely_ close in the span of only five months?

And then, then, he and Melissa put Claudette to bed, leaving Derek and Stiles outside for a few moments before coming back to them. As he's going down the stairs to retunr he hears them:

"-ooking at you like you murdered his favorite puppy," Stiles is saying.

"He's only looking at me like that," Derek tells him, and his voice is softer, honeyed and coated in some kind of devotion, "because he doesn't know anything. And because he _loves_ you. So he's worried. I don't blame him for that."

"Yeah, I don't blame him, either."

"No. But you are lonely here, aren't you?" Derek's voice is pitched low, like he's approaching some kind of wounded animal.

"What do you mean?" That definitely sounds like Stiles getting defensive.

"Baby, I can _smell_ the new-family pheromones coming off of them in waves. And you. Ever since we've gotten here you've been uncomfortable, and it's not just because of me. You feel like an outsider, like you've been abandoned by your Pack, and, yeah, maybe you're human, but that doesn't change anything. And... It's okay to feel that way, Stiles, it is. But he's not trying to abandon you. He still loves you more than anything, you know that, right? You can _feel_ it?"

"Yeah, yes. I can, I always can," there's a little catch in his voice, and John is surprised that his son is actually opening up instead of lashing out, although he may be a bit more shocked at the line of conversation. There were some parts of what the other Alpha said that sounded like gibberish, but the rest of it... Is that really what Stiles has been feeling? What John's been missing this whole time? "But no matter how much I know it in my _head_..."

"Insecurities suck," Derek picks up when Stiles trails off, there's a quiet little self-deprecating laugh from the Omega and a huff from his Alpha in turn.

"It's okay to feel lonely," Derek tells him again, "but you're not alone. You're never going to have to be alone again."

They're silent for a few long minutes, though John thinks he hears them shifting to be nearer to- maybe hug- each other. It goes on long enough that he thinks of maybe going the rest of the way down the stairs and outside to join them again, when:

"If this is what it feels like, even-" flailing, gesturing noises, John is pretty sure- "even pseudo psychologically, to be abandoned by Pack... I don't want you to feel like this, Der."

"Stiles," comes the soft, muffled, heartachingly honest reply, "it's _you_. If I lose them for you it'll be worth it."

Another pause, lull, pregnant this time, with something John can't quite name. And then he hears something he never thought he would again, the ghost of his Mate underlaying his son's voice as she says- _he_ says:

_'You are the very best of us, Mischief.'_

"You are the very best of us, Der."

John decides, in that moment, that some things preclude curiosity.

They're good for each other, and he isn't going to push away someone who can so obviously see things he's missed for years, and who makes his son _happy_.

Because, in the end, that's all that matters.

* * *

Two days after meeting Stiles' parents Derek ends up catching up on all the work he'd missed- teaching some kids how to box, doing paperwork, training the coaches and trainers. Stiles has been clingy, ever since they told each other how they feel, ever since they melted that Gods forsaken ring, not that Derek's complaining. He loves having Stiles all over him, it's... nice, to feel wanted, to feel secure, to be told through actions and words that _he loves me back_.

Stiles is half-terrified of telling the Pack, of them knowing, of them shunning Derek. And it figures that he doesn't even contemplate how much it would hurt _him_ , and Derek knows it would, knows that Stiles loves them all as if they were his own, knows that Stiles, being able to feel what they might feel in anger or frustration or, even, hatred and disgust, he knows that Stiles will be just as devastated.

But _neither_ of them want to keep it a secret. Not that they would be able to anyway, considering how they smell half-mated at this point.

They just want each other.

And all Derek can do is pray that his family understands.

Soon, he thinks, as he heads to his office, sweaty and sore in muscles that will regenerate their strength soon enough, but had to give him a physical reminder that he's out of practice, anyway. Soon.

When he opens his door he catches it, wouldn't have been able to over the regular stench of the Gym, but in his office- which normally just smells faintly of him and punching bags and wood-polish- it's _strong_.

Wind and clay and swishing lake water, willow trees and wildberries and long, grey afternoons.

Stiles.

And he can hear his energizer quick heartbeat coming from... under the desk? Under the desk, where his Omega is curled up, dozing on the carpet. Derek is so far gone on this man, he's fucking hopeless, and this has to be the cutest thing he's ever witnessed.

"Baby," Derek whispers from where he's crouched down low enough to reach, sliding fingers through soft brown locks. "Baby, what are you doing?"

Stiles blinks at him muzzily even as he nuzzles into Derek's hand, starts pressing open-mouthed kisses on the tendon inside of his wrist, "Missed you."

"There's a couch in here, Stiles," Derek murmurs, grin threatening to break his face when Stiles reaches his arms out, making a _'gimme, gimme'_ gesture at Derek's general person. He sighs, put-upon (even though all he really feels is _sick_ with how fucking adorable this is. Puppies and kittens and babies have all officially been beaten), and crawls down under his desk to curl around his Mate and be unashamedly cuddled into.

"But the desk has your _name_ on it," Stiles grumbles petulantly, like that makes _any_ sense, wrapping his arms around Derek's middle and his legs around Derek's legs and pressing his face into Derek's chest, ear right over his heart, listening, making happy, contented, satisfied noises as he wraps himself up and just _clings_.

Derek can't bring himself to feel anything short of amazed and in love and _joyful_ beyond words.

Stiles seems content to use him as a pillow, here, under Derek's desk in the middle of the day with the bustle of the Gym still awake and alive around them. Derek is entirely content to let him.

Two of his workers find them there, Lydia in all of her blunt, willful glory, and Greenburg in all of his, well, _Greenburg_ glory. They both snicker and take pictures and cackle their asses off on the way out as Derek calls out to them, softly enough not to wake the sleeping Empath, but loudly enough to be heard:

"You better text me those!"

* * *

Derek watches, a little invested, a lot enamored, as Stiles folds himself over the canvas he's been painting on, covered now in spectacular shades of blue and green with hints of gold and sunlight, warmth and life amongst the cool and watery.

"What will it be?" he asks with no small amount of awe.

And Stiles just kisses him on the apple of his cheek, right underneath his eye, with a smile full of all that his moniker forbodes.

It's really no surprise, he thinks, when the finished product turns out to be koi swimming in a vast lake. That he names it _'Eyes'_.

They make love that night, long and deep and slow, and Derek just falls that little bit more in love with him when he presents the painting, blush spread out over his cheeks and ears, dusting him rose, and tells Derek it's for him.

 _'Yeah,'_ he thinks, _'this is worth it. This is worth everything.'_

* * *

It's _early_ , but Stiles is, oddly, craving something _very_ , very specific, a type of sandwich his Mama used to make him, and pickles, so even though the threat of sunrise isn't even on the horizon yet, Derek and his Omega climb into his car to go to the convenience store down the way. Stiles had said he could go on his own, but Derek didn't really want him to, he was tired, but so was Stiles, and, anyway, his wolf was calling out _provideprotectkeep_ within him, if he'd let Stiles go it alone he wouldn't have been able to sleep, and if he was going to be awake he might as well...

Besides, there's a part of him that just doesn't want to _ever_ be without Stiles, now he has him, now they have _each other_.

Being clingy, he's found, works both ways.

"It's still about a month 'til Christmas," he says, side-eying a particularly _fabulous_ looking house- covered in lights, with glowing reindeer on the roof, and ginormous snowflakes planted in the front yard- while they're stopped at a red light, even though there's virtually _no one else_ out, right now. Small towns like Beacon Hills have that, some days, a time when almost everyone has put themselves away, when it feels deserted and quiet and loneliness is just that little bit more overbearing.

Stiles yawns from his place in the passenger seat, smiles, all sleep-soft and delicate, "I think it's beautiful," he murmurs. "It's all-" he twirls a hand at the sight outside his window- " _jolly_."

Derek snorts at that, but Stiles is still looking at the house, his scent the juice of blackberries and the hum of psalms and the wind playing at the branches of willow trees, and his _eyes_ , all syrup-childish-wonder, are sparkling with the reflection of those Christmas lights, gorgeous. He's smiling, too- a _real_ smile- absently, like he's not even thinking about it, and, _Gods_ , Derek's heart just _bursts_. Everything falls in on this moment, this finite point of time, saturated in the brown sugar-warmth of his eyes, and the pretty of his smile, his lips, his heartbeat, his scent; it captures Derek so completely that for just a second, everything freezes, a single breath of absolute _perfection_ , joy that explodes within him, soars and rushes through every molecule of his being. Ignites him. _Consumes_ him.

And Stiles looks at him, sun-soaked honey eyes brighter than any star, pastel pink lips parted on a little gasp, cheeks and ears coated in the color of cherries- Derek can't even help it, he wraps a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and draws him in. It's quiet, chaste, a brush of lips, as much a caress as a kiss. Stiles makes a little sound, indecipherable and exquisite, adds pressure, begs him to open with his tongue, and Derek does, _of course_ he does. His tongue is velvet-warmth, languid and gentling and exploring, their mouths enveloping each other until they finally break apart to breathe, and Derek does sound broken, shattered, he thinks, when he says, quiet, soft, _sincere_ , "I love you."

Stiles laughs, airy and candy-sweet and trembling. Shaking fingertips come up to tangle in Derek's hair, scratch through his scruff, squeeze his shoulders, movement restless.

" _Der_ ," he rasps, choked. "Mother Mary, I love you, too. Jesus, so, so much- so _much_ , it fucking-" he lets out a shuddering breath, closes his eyes like there's just too much. Words can't encompass something like this.

"I know," he whispers, and he _does_. "I know, baby. I know."

They get pulled out of their little moment by a dog, somewhere within one of the houses, barking, loud and annoyed. Stiles giggles, hushed, wrecked and bubbly in equal measure. Derek wipes away the stray tear running down his Omega's cheek with the pad of his thumb, kissing him once more, sweet and deep and fleeting, before turning his attention back to the road, and- considering the light's turned green- continuing to drive.

Derek gets himself coffee, and Stiles gets all the ingredients to make a toasted peanut butter, honey, and rice krispies sandwich with marshmallows, he also gets pickles and chocolate pudding, the pudding, Derek learns later, is _for_ the pickles which... is _disgusting_ , as far as he's concerned, but it makes Stiles happy, and when he kisses the smile his Omega is wearing, he finds it doesn't taste so bad, though he refuses to try it for himself.

* * *

One day, when Derek comes over a few hours before he has to go to work, Stiles begs to paint his nails, says he wants to see if his creative ability extends to nail art, and he can't very well do it on _himself_ , and- Derek's already agreeing because he doesn't actually mind, besides, he likes it when Stiles gets excited about something new that interests him.

It happens a lot- he'll go on the computer, or he'll have a thought, and it leads to another, and next thing you know he hasn't slept for a week because he's been too busy researching the mating cycles of _beetles_ , and he'll talk about it endlessly, smelling increasingly like stardust and willow trees and _warmth_ , and Derek always ends up interested despite himself, in love with the happiness Stiles exudes, helplessly drawn in. He swears he's learned more random and enlightening facts from his Omega than he'd learned _anything_ in school.

So he sits, and he watches, and he listens as Stiles explains the evolution of nail art, and the cultures that have inspired it, influenced it. He ends up with lilacs all around his fingers, blooming on his fingernails, the tips of them leafy and glittering, with a smile on his face he can't manage to wipe off, and an overwhelming joyousness coating his insides he never really thought he'd _get_ to _have_ , let alone _keep_.

"Wow," Lydia says when she looks at his hands, inspecting them seriously, "this is good work. I'd pay for something like this."

Jackson, on the other hand, another worker of his, Lydia's ex, sneers and says, "What kind of girly shit is that?"

Derek narrows his eyes, letting a growl (that can't even be bothered to sound like anything less than a purr, he's too damn happy to get pissed) rumble through him. Jackson's eyes widen as he seems to remember the people he's talking to, his _boss_ , and the single most terrifying woman on the planet- even his Mom would be loathe to piss of Lydia- and he, wisely, makes a quick escape before either of them can kill him. Lydia snorts before returning her attention to his decorated hand.

"Your Omega did this, didn't he?"

He hesitates, for just a moment, her eyes sharp and piercing on his, before nodding.

"It's beautiful," she says, patting him on the cheek in a rare show of caring. "He really loves you, I can tell." Then, sauntering off, she calls, "Text me his number! I want my nails to look that gorgeous! No hogging!"

And he huffs a laugh before he can help himself.

* * *

Two weeks before Christmas, Derek and Stiles go to the Pack House.

Ever since they got together Derek has been spending half his time at Stiles' and the other half at the apartment above his Gym, his smell is too mingled with lake water and wildberries and willows and lullaby-twilight for them _not_ to notice, and he'd wanted to wait until he and Stiles were _both_ ready, to tell them.

So, now, with the two of them there- Stiles' scent, too, carrying undertones of wet leaves and autumn and loam- there is no denying it. They don't even have to say anything, honestly, it's so obvious, Stiles' ringless finger the cherry on top of all the other evidence of what they're about to confess.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says first, the Pack gathered in the living room, all of them with varying expressions and baited breaths. The air is tense, though it feels more like anticipation than accusation. Derek slips his hand into Stiles', laces their fingers together, dauntless and unwavering.

"I can't go through my engagement with Peter. I can't marry him. I _can't_ , and it's not just because I'm- I'm in love with _Derek_... My relationship with Peter wasn't necessarily a _healthy_ one, and, honestly, the only reason he even wanted to marry me was because he thought it would further his career. I'm... I really am sorry. But I _can't_ stay with him, and, now-" Stiles takes a deep breath, squeezes Derek's fingers convulsively- "now I can't _leave_ Derek. Because I love him so much it hurts, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even be able to live without him, anymore."

Derek doesn't even try to hide the small smile this declaration causes, just says, unflinching from everyone's gazes, "I love him."

Because for him, after _everything_ , it's just that simple, even though it's quite possibly the most complicated thing he's ever said.

Stiles is holding his breath, ten seconds from shaking right out of his skin, and then-

Erica whoops and whistles, and goddamn fuck, because everyone is smiling and clapping and Laura's got her head thrown back with _laughter_ and little Mikey is jumping up and down with excitement. " _Finally_ ," he hears his Dad breathe, as his Mom comes up to them, apple-red lips pulled into an exquisite, elegant smile full of love and good humor.

"You may have noticed," she murmurs, "but we were kind of expecting this."

Stiles seems shocked, and, if anything, he's shaking even harder now. "I didn't- how- but-" he stammers, breathless, eyes welling up with tears.

"Oh, honey," she says, pulling them both into a gentle, tender, motherly hug, "you were Pack practically the moment we met you, and... you weren't happy, with Peter, we could _all_ feel that."

"Just like we could all see, because it was so, _totally obvious_ ," Laura croons, running and glomping into them, her arms wrapping up the three of them, all stretch and squeeze, "how much you two idiots cared about each other."

"And how much the whole situation hurt you both," Erica says, bluntly, but not unkindly, as she joins in on the group hug, Boyd behind her offering up a supportive nod and the twitch of a smile rather than words.

"I already forgave you," Cora says blithely, strongarming Laura so she can get closer to the eye of this hug-storm. "And besides, Stiles is cool," she shrugs against the growing tangle of bodies, "and you both deserve to be happy."

"Peter's been asleep awhile," Isaac says softly, tentatively cocooning himself up against their sides, Erica and Boyd making room for him, "who knows when he'll wake up... Life- life goes on." His smile is small, more a tilt of his mouth than anything, but it's encouraging and kind and _there_ all the same.

Phillip, Illia, and Dad all pile on, grand smiles settled contentedly on their faces, Granddad pouncing on the lot of them with the same childish glee that Laura had, and little Mikey, squirming through the mass of people to snuggle their legs.

Stiles, melting into all of the _embrace_ , looks at him, eyes wide and awed and honored, breathless, and cheeks soaked with tears of unadulterated joy. Derek's smiling so wide his cheeks are liable to fall off, and he's sure he's never loved his family, his _Pack_ , more than he does right now. With a laugh that's deep and filled with giddy relief and some sort of overwhelming delight, he kisses his Omega, and whispers against his lips, "I told you it would be okay."

And Stiles laughs, wet and full of emotion, still trembling with the come-down of adrenaline and fear.

"Thank you," he sobs, relieved, into the shoulders of no less than three people. " _Thank you_."

* * *

Lydia Martin has been friends with Derek Hale for years. They aren't childhood friends and they aren't family and they certainly aren't _best_ friends, but they have _a_ friendship, nonetheless.

She knows he's a werewolf, of course; not because he told her, but simply because he's not excellent at hiding it, and, contrary to popular belief, her brain isn't filled with air simply because she's _pretty_. Working at the Gym had been, for her, a good way to earn money and learn reliable skills while she was in college. A college, quite frankly, _beneath_ her, but that is no matter- her Mother's sick, and she needs to stay close in order to take care of her. She's intelligent enough that it doesn't matter what college she goes to, in the end.

She's only seen her boss' Omega a few times, the most memorable of which was when he had the man curled up under his office desk smelling like pine needles and crisp wind, with all that _happymatelove_ wafting off of the both of them, making her feel both pleased that she had new blackmail material and vaguely disgusted at how _cute_ they were. Nevermind, though, she needs to meet this Omega, man to man, because Derek _is_ her friend, and it's her duty, as such, to make sure that no heart breaking is underfoot. She still remembers him opening up to her, once- when they'd gone out for drinks after work because Jackson had just broken up with her and he'd noticed that she wasn't quite as... _alright_ , as she was trying so desperately to make herself out to be- about Paige, and the raw wound she'd left him.

Derek doesn't trust or love easily, he's emotionally constipated and repressed and broody, or, at least, that's how she _knows_ him to be. Lately... Lately he's fucking _bloomed_. He still doesn't talk so much, but his face softens more than it scowls, and his eyes smile more than they glare- for a few months the foundation of it was all underlaid with the kind of _ache_ that made it seem like he was constantly walking on broken glass, swallowing down shards of it, and resignedly letting it tear him to shreds- but these past few weeks it's been clear-cut joy, and him smelling _Mated_ , being a little less angry, a little more _there_ , his heart drawn out of its metal box of aggressive protection, until it's right underneath his skin, until he's fucking _glowing_ with it.

Which is why this meeting needed to happen, she thinks, reapplying lipgloss as she waits in line to order. She will admit that- underlying her protectiveness of her friend, her need to make sure that the man isn't about to be summarily crushed by some brute- there is curiosity, because, honestly, what kind of person can bring someone like _Derek Hale_ out of his shell, even if only slightly?

So she orders her tea and her cake, and she goes to sit at a small table in the corner by the window, waiting for them to call her name whilst simultaneously keeping an eye out for her companion.

When he comes- ordering coffee for himself and some sort of chocolate disaster with a spinach dip which looks disgusting, but he's eating it anyway- he is _nothing_ like she expects. He never stops talking, for one, and he's nearly as intelligent as she is, far as she can tell, maybe even more in some areas. He keeps up with her conversation and her intellect and her sarcasm, and he's far better at reading the emotions of the room than anyone she's ever met.

When she tells him with her best glare that she won't allow him to harm her friend, he doesn't even bat an eye.

"He's the love of my life," he says, more serious than he's been throughout their entire conversation. "Harming him would be the death of me."

And his whiskey-burn eyes look into hers, deep and earnest and true.

It's breathtaking, and she can do nothing less than believe him.

They set an appointment to have lunch next week, when he promises to paint her nails, and she decides she's positively taken with him. It only helps that he seemed to be taken with _her_ almost immediately, and that he had recognized the brain behind her beauty faster than anyone she's met to date. The compliments are nice, too.

They will be fast friends, she thinks, and finds herself already trusting him with her boss' heart.

* * *

Derek watches Stiles, chattering on with the older Mated couple in the park. Apparently, the two Betas come to this park every tuesday and thursday to practice dancing, and Stiles, with his easel placed firmly in the grass and paint covering his hands in rainbow, the sun oozing in his melted-honey eyes, has been painting them. The two women, cantonese and white-haired, both have crooked, wrinkled smiles for him, and candies, and even a kind word for Derek, simply because of his proximity.

The good thing- or bad thing, it depends on the person- about being in california is that, though the weather will sometimes surprise you and offer snow, or even hail, most of the time, even being so close to winter, it stays sunny. The air is certainly brisk, and yesterday, it rained, but today the sky is cloudless, and the earth around them is mostly dry. It's not the perfect weather for a picnic, but that somehow makes this all the better.

Kwan Heun-Ming and Mik-Ngai both chitter with him and Stiles happily, in heavily accented, soft voices, before turning to their little radio, turning it on and- surprisingly well for their old age- dancing brilliantly. Stiles paints them, just a little ways away from their spot, and Derek sits on the blanket beside his Omega's easel, nibbling on some of the food things they brought when a thought occurs to him.

"You know," he says musingly, "I think this is our first date."

Stiles looks at him, eyes wide and mouth gaping, sputters for almost a full minute, then, faintly, "Holy shit, it _is_. Wow. Our relationship is soooooo backward."

Derek shrugs, a little smile playing helplessly at his lips, "Yeah. But it's ours."

And it's out in the open, now that both of their families, somehow, _miraculously_ , accepted it. Not as if they were really hiding it (or, at least, if they _were_ , they weren't doing a good job according to at least 2/3rds of the Pack) from anyone. It still floors him that his family, his _Mom_ , his Granddad, _all of them_ met this with kindness and acceptance and love, even when he and Stiles had been so terrified to reveal it.

His Mom, after, had told them that she'd known they were probably True-Mates from the moment that they met, and that, yes, it may hurt Peter, upon waking, this development, but if Peter's and Stiles' relationship wasn't _healthy_ , then this was better for everyone involved in the long run anyway. His Granddad had just squeezed Stiles extra tight and told him he deserved to be happy, and that it was okay to be selfish once in awhile. Isaac had clapped Stiles on the shoulder and said that change can be good, and Laura had ruffled Derek's hair and told him she was happy for him, proud of him, and that it was _so good_ to see him _smile_. Mikey, the most memorable out of all of them, had just said that he had _known_ Stiles would make a better 'big brother' than an 'uncle'.

Stiles had laughed and cried and laughed some more, Derek hadn't been able to stop smiling, and the joy he'd felt had been incomparable, undefinable; the acceptance, validation of their feelings, their relationship, had been wholly unexpected and so, so, so amazing.

That night, they'd made love, and stayed knotted until the sunrise spilled through the open window to kiss their sweat-slick skin. Stiles had never looked more beautiful, transcendent, as he had in the moment upon waking, his lips curling up, eyes sparkling, a little gurgle of startled laughter bubbling up from his throat. He'd shifted then, smiling at Derek over his shoulder, kissing him so sweetly Derek's teeth began to ache, and telling him that he was the happiest he'd _ever_ been.

"What are you smiling about?" Stiles asks, now, dopey grin on his face, and Derek's smile only widens.

"You," he answers honestly, heart soaring, and Stiles' eyes crinkle, sparkle, make the whole fucking world _bright_.

Gods, how he loves this man.

* * *

The second time Scott sees Derek after the whole- _thing_ , with Peter and car crashes and comas and _stuff_ , it's two days before Christmas, and Scott actively seeks him out. Derek isn't a bad guy- Scott doesn't _think_ \- and, despite all his surly-quiet loom-creep, he's a good _trainer_ \- seriously, getting an asthmatic to first-line is an incredible feat. He just doesn't know if the guy is a good _boyfriend_ , let alone good enough for his _brother_.

Besides, his Uncle was apparently _abusive_ , and, as far as Scott knows, the longest standing romantic relationship Stiles has had, and, shit. He still feels the guilt from that, clawing away at his insides and wrenching at his heart, he'd skyped Allison and cried for, like, four hours about it. She'd been so genuinely horrified, disgusted, and then they'd come to the awful realization that Peter may have done that to her _Aunt_ , too!

It's horrible to know it'd been going on for so long, and he'd never noticed, and even when he'd seen hints, he hadn't... It kills him, to have failed Stiles in such a way, really, it does. But he won't, he promises himself, fail his brother again. _Ever_.

So, he enters Hale's Boxing Club with determined purpose, and finds the trainer he knows best, even if he's kind of, well, relatively a walking bad luck charm.

"Hey, Greenburg," he greets, and the Omega smiles at him, a genuine, too-big, overly happy sort of thing. Scott might be discomfited by it if not for the fact that he knows Greenburg smiles like that at _everyone_ , and is, despite his propensity for terrible situations, eternally the happiest, most encouraging person on the planet. He has a soft spot for every single thing in the world. Even _cockroaches_.

"Hey, Scott! What's up, man? Want some time in the ring? Or with one of the bags? Anything you need," his smile is earnest and blinding in its radiance.

"No, I'm not here for-" he shakes his head- "um, d'you know where your boss is?"

"Oh! Derek's in the back. You can go on in, probably, he's in a good mood today. Well, he's been in a good mood all week. Actually, he's been in a good mood all _month_ , it's _awesome_ ," Greenburg gushes right before, without any prompting whatsoever, his glove promptly does the closest thing to disintegrating Scott's ever seen. "Awwww."

Scott bites his cheek to keep from laughing at the man's misfortune as he walks past the ring and the punching-bags and everything else, nodding to the few people he knows along the way, and heading toward where he knows the Alpha's office is.

Derek's sitting at his desk, looking over paperwork with slightly furrowed brows, but he looks up the moment Scott's close, and his expression immediately morphs into the blank, expressionless mask Scott's used to. With no small amount of trepidation- Derek's a scary guy, okay?- Scott closes the door behind him and faces the older Alpha.

"So," Scott says, squaring his shoulders and making his eyes darken, "you're dating my brother."

Derek's lips twitch like he's fighting a smile he can't even help, and hazel eyes sparkle in a _proud_ , joy-tender sort of way when he says, "Yes."

Scott waits out a slightly awkward silence, waiting for more, but Derek seems content to stop at just the one word, and as the minutes progress, he steadily raises one of his eyebrows in a very concise: _'Is there more to this?'_ expression.

Scott clears his throat.

"If you ever hurt him-"

"Never," Derek says, and it isn't loud, or even really forceful, but there's a quiet vehemence to it that surprises him in its sincerity. "I would _never_ hurt Stiles. And if I ever do, I give you full permission to kill me, I'd deserve it." That blank mask has been replaced with some stormy devotion, over-full with the kind of love Scott's only ever seen three times in his whole life (once, in his step-father's eyes when he was smiling at Claudia, still in the hospital bed, but putting on a brave face for them all; once, a gaze between two people he didn't even _know_ ; once, in Allison's eyes on their first date), and a faint vulnerability coating his whole frame. "But I can almost guarantee you," his voice is soft, hopeful, _happy_ , "you'll never have to go that far."

Scott's shocked speechless for a whole two minutes, and when words finally _do_ return to him- even in the face of someone he's only ever known to be indifferent and monosyllabic suddenly transforming into what amounts to a fluffy teddy bear. He can totally see it, see Derek being nothing but sweet with Stiles when he's all jagged-woodchip-rough with everyone else- "You're secretly a total sweetheart, aren't you?" is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, unbidden, before he can even stop it, and _that_ kicks Derek right back into normalcy, the older man narrowing his eyes with a scowl and a glare.

Scott claps his hands over his mouth, the, "I totally didn't mean to say that," muffled by his palms and fingers.

After a few more stilted tries at further conversation, Scott flees, and entirely misses the laughing hazel eyes and smug smirk that follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhgggggg, I totally failed Claudette this chapter, I know, please don't kill me.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and this fic so far! Love you mine lovelies, kisses! Muah, muah, muah!
> 
> Next chapter will be christmas!fluff ;)


	5. Said The Sugarplum Faerie To Pinocchio, "Let's Make You A Real Boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo, Christmas chapter! I've never written holidays before? I dunno how well this is gonna go? Ah, oh, well, I hope you like it.
> 
> PS - In this universe Christmas is on the 31st, because, ahhhhhhh, it just made my life easier, lol, don't kill me?
> 
> This chapter is mostly as much unabashed fluff as I felt I could get away with ;P
> 
> Also, emetophobes, beware, there is a scene you might not enjoy further down, I tried to keep it vague, though. Love u mine peeps!

"How are you not freaking out right now?" Scott hisses through his teeth, pacing back and forth. There are presents and gift wrapping material and tinsel fucking _everywhere_ , his house is a _pig-sty_. He doesn't have much in the way of _actual_ Christmas decoration, however, just a long, big canvas he'd painted with a full, lovely sort of Christmas tree. Not like he'll be spending Christmas at home, anyway, he and Derek are spending the morning with the Pack, the afternoon with the Stilinskis, and the evening with the Pack, again, since they plan to stay over for New Year's, too.

And Stiles can't even put into words how awesome it was to make _plans_ with his Alpha about how exactly they were going to go about it all. It makes champagne fizz in his veins and something warm and triumphant and _happy_ burst in his heart, overflow, seize his whole being. Granted, they decided, in the end, to spend more time with Derek's side of the family than with Stiles', but that's mostly because... Well, they're both biased.

Stiles loves his Dad, and Melissa, and Scott, and _Claudette_ , sweet, innocent, adorable Claudette. But he _does_ feel lonely there, even as they try to include him, involve him, he just feels _isolated_ , and he doesn't _feel that way_ with the Hales. He feels cracked open, accepted, _free_.

"I already have all my presents in order," Stiles tells him with a smirk. He's got toys for Mikey and Claudette, a necklace for Illia, a rare book for Phillip, two paintings and a dress for both Laura and Erica, twin daggers with bejeweled handles for Cora, clothing and cookies for both Boyd and Isaac, another rare book for Arlow, along with a small painting from another artist he knows the man favors, an antique typewriter for Saul that he's pretty sure is haunted, along with some pranking supplies, new cookware and potholders for Melissa and Talia, new guns and socks for Dad, a painting of Allison for Scott, and, when Allison comes by after New Year's, he'll be gifting her the Christmas Tree painting, along with a nutcracker and a shirt he knows she'll like.

And, for Derek, two sentimental surprises that he's exceedingly anxious about.

Scott, on the other hand, has all of his presents, though they're not _in order_ \- hence the impromptu gift-wrapping session going on right now- and is currently angsting about the possibility that Allison will not like her presents- which is helping Stiles' nerves on the matter _none_. It's like an endless feedback loop *even though he isn't feeding _into_ it). Scott's emotions are all jump-flare, anxiety, hope, insecurity, mild terror.

"You need to take a deep breath, dude."

"How? I mean, what if I get this wrong and she _hates_ me? Oh my god, what if all the presents I got her are _horrible_? What am I even _doing_?"

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight against the onslaught of nerve-wracking emotions, tries to shake himself of them. "Look, Scott. Scotty. You've been through _five_ Christmases with this girl, has she _ever_ hated you for your adorkable presents?"

Scott blinks at him, a dopey smile taking over his face as his negative emotions drown under a swell of brotherly adoration. "Aww," he coos, "you think my presents are _adorkable_?"

"Yes," Stiles says immediately, nodding vigorously, because they absolutely _are_ , before patting the space on the sofa beside him _not_ cluttered with various holiday propaganda. "Now calm down, sit down, and help me wrap these gifts, alright, buddy?"

Scott's grinning, his emotions evening out as he does as he's bid. The calm lasts for all of ninety seconds, though, before it plummets again, and he's chewing on his nails, asking in a wavering voice, "Are you _sure_ she'll-"

"Ugh," Stiles groans, throwing his head back against the back of the couch, " _dude_."

* * *

Derek stifles a smile when Stiles' first reaction to him showing up on the Omega's doorstep on Christmas Eve is to glomp him, curl into him with his whole body, and complain quietly in his ear about best friends with _issues_.

"Your emotion bubble is yummy," he breathes in his ear, practically purring, finishing his little rant about Scott, and Derek, holding the man in his arms tightly, snorts, carrying him back through his own door before shutting it behind him.

He has to admit he himself is just the slightest bit nervous about his own presents, but he's more hopeful than anything, which is... rare, but an occurrence that's steadily increasing in frequency the longer he stays with Stiles. He sets Stiles down when they enter the living room, whistling lowly at the Christmas disaster it presents, Scott looking disheveled and terrified in the midst of it all.

"Seriously," the other Alpha says, and it sounds like it's not the first time, by far, that he's said it, "what if she doesn't like them? Derek, Derek, my-- friend?- oh, I don't care how scary you are!" He exclaims, and Derek raises an eyebrow as the frazzled man lunges for him like a drowning man for a life-raft. "You have sisters, right? Tell me what girls like! Look at my gifts with me, come on, do you think she'll hate them? Oh my god, she will won't she? Oh, what am I gonna do?"

"Um," Derek manages, and now _Stiles_ is looking at him like a drowning man looks at a life raft.

"It's a crisis," his Omega says, very seriously, "a Christmas crisis."

Derek swallows, looks over gifts he's... decently sure a college-aged girl would enjoy? He has no idea, he knows next to nothing about Allison, except (because even when he's learning how to box and training up for lacrosse, Scott has a one-track mind) that she has heart-shaped dimples, and her hair is chocolate-colored, and she's probably made out of sugar and angeldust and sparkles and cloudfluff. "You're... You're showing them to her over Skype on Christmas, right?" He begins haltingly, and Stiles' eyes light up as Scott begins to nod slowly, apparently riveted by whatever solution Derek might have. "So, if she doesn't like them, go out and buy something you think she _will_ like after New Year's- everything will be on sale by then- and when she comes into town give her the 'real' gifts as a surprise?"

Derek has no idea, he just wants Stiles' brother to calm down.

"Yeah," Scott breathes, a brilliant, dopey, happy-go-lucky smile emerging like the sun through the storm clouds on his face. He claps Derek on the shoulder, grinning beatific, now, "Yeah! That could totally work! Thanks, man." His eyes are fucking _twinkling_ , filled suddenly with determination and encouragement. Derek feels _intensely_ uncomfortable by contrast.

"So," Stiles says hopefully, "crisis averted? You're good now?"

"Yeah," Scott dimples, overly happy. "Help me get all this stuff in the car?"

Stiles' smile is wide and happy and relieved, and, as they help Scott gather his things, he keeps doting little kisses on Derek, and saying over and over again, "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're amazing. My amazing Alpha."

And, Derek thinks, his heart absolutely melting under the onslaught of affection, it was worth it, to speak up despite his own reservations.

* * *

It takes about an hour to get Scott all packed up and headed off to the Stilinski house. When he's gone Stiles makes a tiny, distressed moue at the state of his living room. He can feel Derek behind him, a rush of _joylovepleasedhopehappy_ with just the slightest aftertaste of nerves- mostly the good kind.

"I'm going to be finding tinsel _days_ from now," he swears, and Derek snorts.

Something giddy bubbles inside of him, and he turns to Derek with a squeal he can't push down. "We're spending Christmas Eve together!" He squeaks, delighted, flinging his arms around Derek's neck and kissing him sound, "We're pressing Christmas Eve together," he repeats, breathless, overjoyed, "and you saved me from my brother's panic," he kisses Derek's nose as the man winds his arms around Stiles' waist, eyes crinkling and sparkling, "and you love me," he whispers, in awe, licking his way into Derek's mouth, "and it's-" he chokes on a laugh that's half hysterical, because part of him still doesn't believe it- "it's _okay_."

All of the emotions, Derek's, his own, even the lingering things from Scott, all warm-welcome, and support, and _love_ , even with the holiday haze, and Stiles swears it's the most appreciated he's ever felt in his entire life. He's had more simply _happy_ moments these past few months than he's had in his entire life. There was this chasm inside of him, filled with everyone else's emotions, filled with _Peter's_ emotions, and ever since the car crash- a mildly traumatic experience he hasn't even had time to _think_ of since it happened, and somehow the catalyst for all of these _good_ things- it's been filling up with experiences full of fondness and devotion and affection and warmth, and now it's just _overflowing_.

"Baby?" Derek asks, pulling back a little to inspect Stiles' tears with a small, concerned frown. "What is it?"

"I'm _so_ happy," he says, wetly, as a sob closes his throat up and chokes him with emotion. "Derek," he breathes, suddenly feeling very small and very scared, "I've never _been_ this _happy_."

Derek's eyes soften, even as his heart breaks just the slightest bit, a roll of love and protectiveness surges, crashes over Stiles like a tidal wave, need and want and hope and happy tangled with an undercurrent of now-familiar familial disappointment, anger. "Stiles," Derek's voice is soft, sweeter than candied-apples, the koi in his eyes flash, and he leans in, presses his lips to Stiles', cupping his face with big, strong, warm hands, "that's okay, too," he says, a little rough, and there's this well of sadness, like a memory of rain, "to be happy."

"Is it?" Stiles rasps, before he can help himself, insecurities twisting at his soaring heart, trying to bring it back down, but the immediate reaction from Derek, to hug Stiles to his chest and just feel... there are no words for it. There's a point, there _must_ be a point, when the word _love_ doesn't cut it anymore.

" _Yes_ ," Derek breathes, vehement, and Stiles, flush with him, buries his face into his Alpha's neck, and lets himself cry out all of the _too much_ within him. Derek makes soft, crooning, sympathetic, sweetened noises, holds him even closer.

When the tears run out, and the yawns take over, they both head to bed, Stiles washing his face and the two of them brushing their teeth (Stiles spent at least ten minutes making faces at Derek, mouth full of toothpaste, just to feel that swell of affection tinged with rainbow-colored amusement), before crawling onto his mattress.

"Tomorrow's gonna be a long day," he sighs, about to nuzzle into his pillow when Derek hands him something, a sudden increase in anticipation coating the action. Stiles sits up to take the elegant mahogany box, a triskele engraved in the lid, "What's this?"

"One of your Christmas presents," Derek murmurs, wistfulness curling between them, soft, tingling like the fingertips of fog. "I'll give you the others tomorrow but this one, this one I wanted to give you tonight."

"Hey, no one's knocking giving Christmas Eve presents," Stiles beams, unhooking the silver-wolf clasp in order to open it, "I, personally, love Christma-" his words, his breath, _time_ , stutters to a halt.

Inside, laying on the cushioned felt inlay, is a collar. It's _gorgeous_ , black leather with feathery adornments and two wolves made of silver curled around a moonstone on the front. The inside of the collar is velvet, soft, and fucking _perfect_. Stiles takes it out of its box with shaking fingers, breathless and ten seconds away from bursting into tears all over again. "Der..."

"It was my grandmother's," the man says softly, hazel eyes more earnest than Stiles has ever seen them. "I know they're old-fashioned, and maybe it's too soon, but I just. I wanted you to have it."

Stiles makes a sound, half delight, half sob, and launches himself into Derek's arms. "It's beautiful," he breathes, already crying again, but he doesn't even care because the build of anxiety is being washed out with exhilaration and adoration and a preening-pride-joy that just makes Stiles want to cry _harder_ , so overwhelmed with _happiness_ he's fucking _drowning_ in it. "It's perfect, god, I love you. I love you so much, _thank you_."

"Merry Christmas," Derek smiles, kissing him just below the jaw before Stiles pulls back, trying and failing to put it on with trembling fingers until Derek, huffing softly, fondly, helps him. He sniffs, trailing his fingertips over the cool, iridescent moonstone.

"I hope you know," he says, as haughtily as he can manage when there's snot and tears all over his probably blotchy face, when his voice is shattered with all the good emotions known to man, "I'm never taking this off."

Derek's smile- the emotions that swell and burst and rise like some kind of elated tide- at that is _beyond_ blinding.

"I love you," the man breathes, before setting aside the box and diving into him, pressing him down, blanketing his whole body and licking past his lips to explore his mouth, tasting like candy canes and coffee. Stiles moans into it, shivers when just the hint of claw skates up his side.

Soon, sleep clothes have been tossed in a heap on the floor, and they're making out in earnest, slick beginning to coat his fluttering hole as he writhes underneath his Alpha, who's got a hand around his wrists, pinning them above his head. And, as into it as he is, when Derek begins laving at his nipples, he can't help snickering, causing the man to look up at him curiously, one eyebrow raised. "They're ticklish!" Stiles protests around a panting giggle as Derek takes the pebble of it between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand.

"Ah," the man hums, smirking, before, _thankfully_ , allowing his attention to wander further down. When he starts sucking a love bite into his side, in the soft flesh right underneath his ribs, Stiles shivers, trembles, squirms and makes a noise he didn't even know he was _capable_ of. Derek pulls away looking equal parts besotted and smug, Stiles still mewling at the sparks of feeling his ministrations caused. "So, your nipples are ticklish," Derek says, something subvocal and inhuman just underneath his voice that makes Stiles' hips cant up, Derek raking his claws along Stiles' thigh in a way that orders him to **still** without saying anything at all, "but your sides are sensitive."

"Mmmmmmm," Stiles moans, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head, the streaks of pain along his thigh being soothed by a rough tongue, all sharp tingle-sooth, a feeling that has him hazy, the hues of the world already melting together, until everything is all watercolor, and all he can feel is his Alpha, holding him, nipping teeth against his skin, sending jolts up his spine, the weight of the collar like _home_ around his throat. Derek's emotions surround him, dive into his soul, hot and _amazing_ , lust, yearning, love, so much goddamned love, his blood sizzles, pops, his muscles go from taught to butter, his whole body feels like an active sparkler, or a rushing river, or the strings of a guitar being played delicious-smooth.

He gasps out several profane things when Derek's mouth, wet-warmth, his blood still lingering on the man's tongue, envelops his cock, sucks him down until Stiles can feel Derek's throat around his head. He chokes out a cry as Derek pulls up a little, swirling his tongue as his claws dance up his side, causing his hips to thrust involuntarily up.

" _Fuck_ , Der, Ah-nnn," Stiles keens as Derek swallow-hums around him, the vibration doing strange things to his insides, causing heat to tighten in his stomach, his muscles convulsing. Long, blunt fingers sink into his slick-soaked hole, flex against his walls, a burning stretch that opens him up, causes his muscles to relax as he pants out Derek's name, his _need_ :

"Please," he urges, teardrops clinging to his eyelashes, making them heavy, "inside, deeper, Alpha." He takes a deep breath as he feels himself begin to float, something fuzzy, _freeing_ , painting him in _happywarmalive_. "Want you, Alpha," he purrs, the words sliding out like silk, "need you. Mmm. Please, _please_."

"How far down are you?" Asks a deep-rumble voice, and Stiles opens up for a tongue, tasting himself, mint, chocolate, and swallowing syrupy emotions, heavy-deep, crisp-sweet.

"Alpha," he pants, scrambling to hold him, wanting to _touch_ , and making a distressed little whine when he realizes he can't move, " _Alpha_."

Derek quietens him with another kiss, sliding his hand away from his wrists to wrap his arm underneath Stiles' hips, pulling him up, pressing himself into Stiles with a pleased growl as Stiles quickly tangles his now-free hands in Derek's hair and tugs a little, trying to fuck himself down on Derek's dick only to be stayed by the man's strong grip. He whimpers, feeling so, _so_ good, and _aching_ for it, hungry for the _full_ , but Derek draws it out, even as he begs and pleads and cries.

Slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, Derek slides inside, gentle, doesn't even use his claws, keeps his nails blunt, and human, and _tender_ , and it's _not enough_ , but then Derek's _inside_ , grazing his prostate and rumbling something deep and meaningful and primal above him, and, god, he can _breathe_. He feels so _safe_. With that, he slips just that little bit further.

Derek is with him, has him, is breathing deep and making animal noises that are as powerful as they are vulnerable. Stiles lets himself go, yields entirely, his body, his soul, his _heart_ , his _trust_. He gives it all to Derek, to take care of, to _cherish_.

Derek leans down as he pulls out, thrusts back in, hard and _perfect_ , and the sounds they make, their love and devotion and pleasure laid bare between them, get caught in the pressure of lips, the tangle of breaths, hushed in their breathless kiss. The snap of his Alpha's hips is languid, and it would frustrate him, but he's _swimming_ , he's found the flow in between heartbeats, and even as bliss builds, even as he's caught in a current of passion and heat so burning he's sure every nerve is on _fire_ , he stays there, _breathing_.

He cries out, arches up, when the feeling swells and crashes into him, the burning, aching, fullness inside overwhelming, taking over, making him come so hard his already blurring vision clouds with dark spots. His muscles twitch, convulse, and his hole contracts against Derek's dick, milks him, wanting _more_. Derek gasps, grunts, thrusting into him twice more before twisting his hips in a slow grind that nearly takes Stiles over the edge again.

The wolf _howls_ when he comes, something visceral and half feral and full of all the emotions Stiles can sense from him, the sound is somehow the sweetest thing Stiles has ever heard, and he finds himself grinning from ear to ear as Derek's knot swells inside of him, his seed all caught in the condom, but still _warm_ , so _big_ inside.

"Your wolf sang for me," Stiles crows with childish glee.

Derek looks down at him, panting, sweating, flushed, and smiles something soft, beautiful, enamored. "Yeah," he agrees, kissing Stiles' nose and eliciting a tired little giggle from the Omega, "I guess it did."

* * *

Derek wakes when it's still dark, the scent of wildberries and windswept willows and loam suffused with musk-spice a fluffy-light thing in the air, causing him to smile, that is, until he notices the distinct absence of his Omega.

"Stiles?" He calls out softly. He's met with silence, and he only calls out once more before listening for the hummingbird heart and following it downstairs. He's met with the sight of his lover sitting on the floor, his elbow propped up on one of his fridge's shelves, enjoying the cool air and, Derek notices with a snort, chocolate pudding, and _pickles_.

"That still looks disgusting," he decides, his voice causing Stiles to jump a little, before the man smiles sheepishly at him, cheek bulging with his odd choice in food.

"I wouldn't normally go for it either," he admits, looking down at his midnight snack with a slight frown, before shrugging, "but I just... I _really_ wanted it. I've been craving it, like, constantly, for the past few weeks, and, god," Stiles makes a sound that almost rivals those he makes while they're in bed together. "It's _so_ satisfying."

Derek hums, crouching down in front of him, feeling indecisive for all of three seconds when Stiles brandishes his food with amused hope, challenge, bright in his eyes, before taking a pickle and a cup of pudding and trying it for himself.

"..."

"So?"

"It's... not actually that bad."

_"Right?"_

* * *

Part of the reason they'd decided to spend the Christmas morning with the Hales was the sheer amount of _people_. And- not that Stiles doesn't love his baby sister, but she has two parents and a big brother to mollify her and make her temper her impatience, the Hale children on the other hand- combined with all the kids of all the extended relatives who, _of course_ , come over- become a mass of hyperactivity too monstrous to fight. Alpha wolves and parental agents be _damned_ in the face of all that crazy.

Which means that, while the Stilinskis can wait for Derek and Stiles to come by to open presents, the werewolves _can't_ , and Stiles doesn't want to miss the _reactions_ ; they're important to him, something he wants to have and keep and treasure.

So they end up amongst Pack, and bustle, and claws shredding gift wrap and Talia and Arlow shoving food at them at about six o'clock in the morning. And Stiles has to admit, it's one of the best Christmas mornings he's ever experienced.

He's surprised and inordinately pleased when he learns that he has presents, too, from everyone, and, honestly, he's starting to hate how much he's _cried_ over the past few days.

"I'm not a crier," he swears, sniffling over the adorable drawing Mikey's given him, the clothes Erica and Cora pitched in to get him, the books Talia and Arlow scrounged up from their _seriously amazing_ library, paint supplies from Isaac and canvas from Boyd, _money_ and _more books_ along with a pouch of- _seriously_ \- Pixie-dust from Saul.

Laura's laughing as she hands him a coupon for a free tattoo at her tattoo parlor before she gets dragged off by the raffle.

"Really," he tells Derek wetly as the man holds a napkin to his nose and makes him blow, like he's a kid, "I'm not."

Derek smiles at him, _softwarmamusedaffection_ , "I believe you."

"No you don't," Stiles accuses with a totally sappy sort of glare that doesn't manage to be a glare at all, and Derek snorts.

Mikey _adores_ his new toys, race cars and space ships and a kid-friendly game for the family's x-box; Illia, who's like him when it comes to touching, with everyone but Phillip she barely stomachs it, actually _hugs_ him after he gives her the necklace, her usually thunder-stoic face eclipsed by a soft, happy, fond smile that matches her emotions _exactly_ ; Laura and Erica change into their new dresses right away, telling him seriously that he has better taste in women's clothing than men's before cooing over his artwork and arguing over where to hang up the pieces; Boyd and Isaac take the cookies and sweaters with grace and quiet smiles; Cora absolutely gushes over her violent gifts, Talia briskly telling her she damn well better not kill anyone or she'll be grounded for life.

He hands over his kitchenary gifts to Talia with a sheepish smile, telling her it was the most practical mom-like thing he could think of, and she surprises him by giving him a very motherly hug and telling him it's perfect.

Arlow actually _squeals_ upon receiving his gifts, and Stiles can see where Laura gets her inner fangirl from, seeing him go on and on about the painter and the author, talking nearly a mile a minute to anyone who will listen. Phillip shares a secret, pleased sort of smile with Stiles upon receiving _his_ book, and promises to read it in its entirety before the new year, giving himself little more than a day, which, Stiles tells him, will be an impressive feat if he manages it.

Saul looks at his gifts and positively cackles himself silly, before running off to prank some unsuspecting cousin twice-removed or something.

"Your Granddad's a little crazy," he informs Derek when he catches the Alpha loitering a little further away from all the crowd, closer to the Preserve, "did you know that?"

Derek takes a sip of his drink, but his eyes sparkle, and Stiles _knows_ he's smiling.

"So," Stiles starts, fidgeting with his collar, and flushing with the happy warmth that comes whenever he touches it, the smile that curls helplessly at his lips, " _gifts_."

"Gifts," Derek agrees, and Stiles takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment as he retrieves the small gift-wrapped box from his pocket.

"The other one," Stiles says haltingly, "it's at home, but... Here."

Derek's face goes stoic and blank, but his emotions wrap around Stiles with all the warmth and love of an embrace, happy, protective, enormously excited. He uses his claws to remove the decorative paper, _delicately_ , and then folds it and puts it in his pocket and Stiles thinks he's safe in assuming he's saving it for later which makes him just want to melt into a puddle of absolutely _stupid_ love and fondness for this man.

As soon as he opens the small box, Stiles' mouth is open, the need to explain it all a cloying thing inside his gut: "I don't know if you like, needed a wash or anything, but, the parts- not the wristband, that's all leather- but the _clock_ is made from the pot... The- the pot we melted the ring onto, I just," but his words get garbled with a bruising sort of kiss, and Stiles _swears_ , with the emotions he gets from Derek, he could _fly_.

When he pulls away, still breathing hard, smiling wider and more open than Stiles has ever _seen_ , the lakes in his eyes _fathomless_ , the crinkle around them _adorable_ , the hands on Stiles' cheeks as grounding as they can be, considering he's pretty sure he just got high off of Derek's-by-proxy feels, all he says is:

"I _love_ it."

* * *

It's a little harrowing, getting away from the wild, partying Pack to get to Derek's Camaro so they can high-tail it to the Stilinski house, but they manage. Not before kissing themselves silly, and very nearly getting into a heavy petting situation... twice.

Stiles leans on Derek's shoulder as they drive, smelling like clear, sweet lullabies, wildberries, twilight-lakewater. Very pleased, but very exhausted Omega. He isn't surprised when, after turning into the driveway, he finds Stiles snoozing, face soft with sleep.

"Baby," he murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair, "we're here."

Stiles' eyes flutter open as he arches, nuzzles into the touch, "Mmm," he hums, still out of it. Derek smiles, kisses him to fuller awareness.

"Don't you wanna see your little sister opening presents?" He asks, which manages to do the trick, because Derek can already tell Stiles would rather _die_ than miss that.

"Ugh," he groans, shifts more into his seat, rubbing his back from the ache of the awkward position, "tired."

"I know, baby. Lunch, presents, and then we can go home and take a nap."

Stiles nods blearily, rubbing at his eyes with a yawn. "'Kay."

And Derek has to smile, soft and sincere, fondness and affection warming him, the sight of Stiles like this making him--

"I still don't get it," Stiles laughs, looking at him with eyes sparkling, "I'm not even doing anything; how are you feeling like that?"

Derek shrugs, "You _are_ doing something," he says, at length, kissing the man before stepping out of the car, rounding it to open the door for his sleepy Omega, who's still looking at him like he's an awe, a wonder, a _miracle_ , and Derek has to wonder if Stiles realizes he does it, too.

The party in the Stilinski household is _by far_ more mellow. Claudette is more excited than she is aggrieved about waiting, now the wait is _over_ , Scott is relieved because he Skyped Allison first thing in the morning, and it turns out she _loves_ her presents, and John and Melissa are managing it all with hard work and conviction and indulgent smiles for their youngest.

Claudette, of course, gets to open her presents almost as soon as they get in. Princess dresses from John, school clothes and accessories from Melissa, since she's starting Kindergarten in the new year, toys and coloring books from both Stiles and Scott. She titters and squeals and makes a mess throughout it all, hugging the gifter tightly after each present has been opened. It's adorable, and Stiles isn't even being secret about taking pictures on his cell for posterity.

Stiles gets books and hair clips for his steadily growing hair from Scott, Melissa gives him coupons for cooking classes, John gives him a photo album, and a promise to be more present in his life that has him crying and the two of them hugging each other with a strength that could rival most 'weres.

John laughs upon receiving two new guns, and Melissa grins at her cookware and her new cooking apron. Scott cries when he sees his painting, and Stiles offers him the tissues he was hogging while Claudette teases them for being so _weepy_. And, although the three Stilinskis' had no idea what Derek might like, they still all pitched in to get him a few random gifts, a few shirts, mugs, even a pillow.

It's nice, small, simpler than he's used to, and Stiles seems happy, despite all his tired, and that's all Derek really cares about.

They eat, they talk, and Stiles laughs, loud and free, and his heart feels _bigger_ , so much more _whole_ , when Stiles reaches over to hold his hand, and doesn't let go until they need to leave.

John, following them out to help put the bulk of the things they received in the trunk, pulls Derek aside, looks him directly in the eyes and asks, "You love him?"

"Yes," no hesitation.

John searches his face, then nods like he passed some sort of test. "If you ever hurt him, I have a gun, and I _am not_ afraid of killing you, and hiding your body. I'm the sheriff, son," he says solemnly, "I'd get away with it."

Derek smiles before he can help himself. "You'll never have to kill me, sir," he promises, and John gives him a strange look, before sighing and nodding again.

"I'm beginning to see that."

* * *

They had planned to spend the rest of the day and New Year's with Derek's family, but Stiles seems exhausted, and, somehow, a part of Derek, after the long events of the day, the merriment and crowd, just wants to be alone with him. Perhaps it's selfish, but he can't bring himself to care as he helps his half-asleep Omega out of the car and into his house. He stops short there, though, his breath catching, because inside, where the living room was a wreck before, it's now clean, and propped up against the couch, like the very first day he saw it, the day he realized he was _in love_ with Stiles, is the painting _'Escape'_.

"I got my art dealer to help me," Stiles says, and Derek is breathless, overtaken by this swell, crescendo of emotions, it's all he can do to capture Stiles in a kiss before his legs give out, bring the Omega down with him, curl into his body and open his mouth with a demanding tongue, nip, lick, bite bruises down his jaw, along his pulse point.

"Gods," he breathes, shaken and overwhelmed and overjoyed. "Gods, I love you."

"Der!" Stiles moans laughingly, grabbing his shoulders for purchase, wrapping his legs around Derek's waist. Then they look at each other, the dimming light through the windows cascading over them, reflecting each other in their eyes, their smiles, their flushed cheeks, their kiss-bruised lips. "I love you, too, Alpha," Stiles croons, soft, and kisses him like his lips are made of some fragile sort of hope, "my Alpha."

"Yours," he swears, hands cupping either side of Stiles' neck, thumbs sliding under the collar to feel the beat of his heart against his fingertips, " _always_ yours, baby."

Stiles makes a sound, pleased in a complicated, besotted sort of way, and rests his forehead on Derek's, breathes for awhile. They stay like that until the hardwood makes their knees ache and Stiles starts yawning again, then they get up, kiss once more, and go to bed.

Derek still has a few more presents to give his lover, just sketchbooks and pencils, a type of paint he knows the man loves but is running out of, and a date to the fair, if Stiles would like that, Derek's pretty sure he will. But that can all wait for the morning. As it is, despite all the excitement, the two of them are asleep almost the moment their heads hit the pillow.

* * *

When he wakes up, steady-slow, the smell of willow trees and lullabies and loam filling the room, and Stiles there, nuzzling into his side, the sound of rain thundering against the windows.

"Time is it?" His Omega asks blearily, without even opening his eyes.

Derek looks over the man's shoulder, kissing a mole right above his collarbone, to look at the clock on the nightstand. "A little past midnight," he whispers into moon-silk skin, taking a deep breath of his lover's scent. Stiles hums, sugar-lilt.

"Happy new year," he murmurs, and Derek grins.

"Happy new year, baby."

* * *

♡ ♡ ♡

* * *

It varies from person to person like all things do, but biology _tends_ to be predictable.

Omegas have Heats for one week every three months, and, without an Alpha, they can sometimes be _unbearable_. Alphas have Ruts for three days every six months, and, even though it's for a shorter period, the mindlessness and pain of it is far more intense. Betas have it easiest, in a way, Extreme Fertility, or EF, affects them for a few days every other month, makes them moodier and hornier and, well, more fertile.

SS, Synchronicity Syndrome, is a side-effect of the Mating Bond, or the proximity to your True-Mates, though True-Mates are considered _extremely_ rare. So, for an Alpha, their Ruts will line up with whatever biological needs their Mate has, for a Beta their EF will. SS, however, doesn't affect Omegas.

And then, when the biological need is fulfilled, or one of the people in the relationship gets pregnant, the Heats, Ruts, EF, they stop, in both the person who got pregnant and whoever they're Mated to, or, if they're close, in their True-Mate. If, however, the pregnant party is single, or an Omega Mated to another Omega, then they'll be the only one affected.

In Stiles' case, his Heat has come like clockwork ever since he was fourteen at the tail-end of every three month cycle, and, according to Derek, his Rut, as far as he can tell, was triggered by Stiles' last Heat, and lasted as long as a Heat _would_. Which only really denotes one thing, which, honestly, considering their relationship so far, should _not_ be as surprising as it is.

So, the week of his Heat comes, and Derek's crashing at his house- a place he's called home often enough by now that Stiles is starting to believe it's _true_ \- and they're both kind of anticipating it hitting them hard, and hitting them _together_. It's... exhilarating, exciting, he's never spent his Heat with _anyone_ before. He- he _wouldn't_ with Peter, and he was only with Danny for, like, a month, before they decided they were better off friends.

When he first told Derek this, the man's eyes got dark, and Stiles felt something animal within his Alpha crash through him, fierce and possessive, but even with that emotion, even with them crushing their mouths together, and Derek frantically pushing him up against the wall, it still ended up being gentle, saccharine sweet, and Stiles had _begged_ , but Derek wouldn't, or couldn't, make it hard or fast or _rough_. He'd kept Stiles on the edge until he was crying, and when he'd finally tipped him over, it'd been one of the _best_ orgasms he'd had in his life.

Derek still does it Stiles' way, most days, puts him Under, gives him teeth and claws, ties him to the bed-post and pulls his fucking hair, but there are sometimes, sometimes when he's so soft, slow, sweet and thorough, putting Stiles in another pain altogether, one that _aches_ , tugs on his heart, makes it swell and clench at the same time to the point that it's almost uncomfortable, days where he doesn't make Stiles shatter, or come apart, days where he meticulously seperates him, piece, by piece, and painstakingly, devotedly, puts him back together again.

Stiles wonders if Derek realizes that, even though he sometimes hates it, a little, to be made love to like that, he'd accept it every time, so long as it was Derek. He'd accept _everything_ from Derek, and, god, that was what made Derek so fucking _terrifying_ at first, what _still_ makes him terrifying. But, Stiles knows, Derek would rather die than hurt him, though, he also knows, he desperately wants vengeance against the one who _has_ hurt him.

Even if that one is his own Uncle.

Stiles shakes himself out of the thought, tries to focus on Scott telling him about Allison coming in to Beacon Hills. She was meant to come back right after New Year's, but ended up deciding to stay in France for another month, she's coming in February, just in time to pick Scotty up to go back to College, although she will be staying for a week. Stiles is excited about that. He and Allison aren't friends like he and Scott are, but they are close, to an extent, and he's missed her.

"So," Scott says, a wave of worry and _brotherfamilyloveappreciationconcern_ , "tomorrow's your Heat, right?"

Stiles laughs, "Yeah."

"You spending it with Derek?" Scott wiggles his eyebrows and Stiles just laughs harder, feels a breathtaking thrill run through him, because holy _hell_ , he's spending his Heat with _his Alpha_ , who he _loves_. His expression melts, and he beams at his brother.

"Yep."

Scott shakes his head, but he's smiling, and there's something like _pride_ blooming in him, Stiles can feel it.

Only... His heat never comes. Instead, the next morning, he wakes in Derek's arms and feels _sick_ , his stomach's all twisted in knots and he just feels this gross, sickly shiver traveling up his spine, nausea making him swallow convulsively before he vaults over Derek, trips over himself no less than three times, but, luckily, manages to make it to the toilet just in time for-

"Jesus, baby," Derek breathes, jolted into awakedness by Stiles' flailing and retching, no doubt. He rushes over, pulls Stiles' hair away from his eyes and out of the vicinity of his mouth as he rubs soothing circles into his back. When Stiles is finally done he murmurs, feeling every ounce worried and mildly distraught, "Well, that didn't look like fun. You okay?"

Stiles makes a weird gurgling sound, manages to shake his head _'no'_ before he starts vomiting again. His eyes and throat burn and his mouth tastes like vomit and he feels disgusting and it goes on until he's basically a snotting, sobbing, dry-heaving mess.

Normally, he avoids hospitals like the plague, has ever since his mom died, won't even go when he's got the flu. The only time he broke his rule about hospitals was after the crash, for Peter, and even then, that didn't last, because as soon as Derek had learned everything, they'd both agreed going back to visit was out of the cards, for _both_ of them- but when the whole day goes by with him puking his guts out every time he smells _anything_ or gets jostled even _slightly_ , Derek by his side the whole time a steadily increasing ball of dread-concern (because he's a werewolf, most of his family are werewolves, sick people aren't something he's used to- suffice it to say he's a little scared shitless), he finally decides, at the end of the night, especially since his scheduled Heat hasn't reared it's head _at all_ , that he maybe needs to suck it up and just go.

* * *

"Now I know you don't like needles, Stiles," Melissa tells her son-in-law, offering a bolstering, reassuring sort of smile to the both of them that doesn't help much _at all_. "So, just-" "Keep your eyes on me," Derek interrupts, unapologetically.

Fortunately, because his step-mom's a pretty badass nurse, and because all of the other nurses seem to know him, almost as soon as Stiles came in, he was being seen to. But the smell of blood and illness and disinfectant is _pervasive_ , and his worry about what's going on with his Omega is daunting, _heavy_ , and, honestly, the fact that Peter's only a couple of paces away- it's all piled up, added on, making him even more agitated than he already was. So Derek holds Stiles' hand, cups his cheek and makes sure the only thing he can see while Melissa draws blood is Derek's face.

"I really don't like needles," Stiles tells him, looking far paler than normal, and a little green around the gills, "or blood. Or hospitals, actually."

"You don't like hospitals?" Derek asks, a small, confused, besotted smile overtaking his face despite everything. It's somehow hard to reconcile that idea with the man he'd _met_ at a hospital, who'd practically lived in that room with his Uncle for four months.

Stiles makes a distressed little sound as the needle slides in, clenches his eyes shut tight, squeezes Derek's hand even tighter. "My mom," he whispers, the word full of such grief that Derek feels compelled to lean down and kiss his temple, soothing, he hopes, if only slightly, "she died here."

Derek swallows, Stiles lets out a shaky breath, and Melissa, in far too chipper a voice for the moment, announces, "All done!"

Stiles, inexplicably, laughs, albeit a little wetly, then he sniffs.

"So, other than whatever might come back in the blood-tests, as far as you can tell, I'm fine?"

"Yep," she tells him, "the best we can do is give you some anti-nausea medication and wait and see if your Heat's just late or if it's something else, although-" she cuts herself off, purses her lips, narrows her eyes. Stiles makes an aggrieved noise and flaps his hands around in an obvious motion to elaborate, before immediately stopping and grabbing the bed-pan. Derek makes soft, comforting noises as he holds the man's hair away from his face and rubs his back, shooting Melissa an anxious look and feeling perplexed and more than a little frustrated when all he sees in her eyes is thoughtful amusement.

"Flailing," Stiles finally manages once he's finished, looking and sounding drained and wrung out, "is a so, not very good idea." He moans thickly, an unhappy, unpleasant sound that has Derek's wolf whining and scratching in the back of his head, begging him to do something about it. "I'll never flail again," he declares solemnly before the retching starts up again.

Melissa waits until he's thoroughly over it and chewing on ice-cubes before she says, soft, delicate, and sincere, "You know, Claudia was like this... when she was pregnant with you."

Derek- Derek freezes, all thought processes, emotions, everything comes to a complete and utter stand-still. Stiles chokes a little on his ice, eyes bulging out of his head, and then barks, " _What?!_ "

Melissa snorts and rolls her eyes, "Well, I don't know! I'm assuming you two are sexually active? Right? And, well, condoms don't work 100% of the time and- I mean, I _really_ don't want to know what you two boys get up to in the bedroom, but. It fits. You've been craving chocolate pudding and pickles, right? And then the day your Heat hits you start feeling like this- that is _exactly_ how it went for Claudia, to the letter, almost."

"You're _kidding_ ," Stiles breathes, and Melissa quirks an eyebrow at him. "You're... not kidding. _Shit_."

Then Stiles looks up at him, all wide-eyed vulnerable and... A _baby_. A _Family_ , with _Stiles_. His wolf is jumping up and down within him giddy-hyper, and, Gods but he's never been more scared of anything in his entire life, never been more fucking _eager_. "Pups?" He hears himself say, choked, and _desperately_ happy, "we could have pups?"

Melissa's lips pull into a wide grin as she stands from her chair, taking vials of Stiles' blood with her, "I'll just leave you two to it, then," she says, closing the door on her way out and granting them a modicum of privacy.

Derek can't stop himself, his breathing is coming fast, and everything is white-noise excitement, his joy is so powerful it's practically devastating. He lets his hand, palm, fingers wide, splay over Stiles' belly, feel the muscle, the heat underneath the cotton of his shirt. The noise he makes is entirely animal, entirely _want_ , not sexual, just... He _has_ a family, he has his sisters and brothers, adoptive and biological, he has aunts and uncles and his parents and Granddad, but _this_. This would be _Stiles_ , in their eyes, their nose, chin, Jesus, their little feet, _Derek_ , in their hair and their cheeks.

Gods, would they be a werewolf? An Empath? _Both_? Neither?

Whoever they would be... Oh, _whoever_ they would be, how- _how_ can he love them so much when they're only just an idea?

Stiles' hand, long fingers, thin, all bones and milk-white skin and smooth, covers his on the man's belly, while its pair reaches up, delicately brushes away tears Derek hadn't even known he'd been crying. He taps his knuckles on Derek's cheek tenderly, smiles at him like a flower blooms, his eyes bright and full of indulgent-affection, fond devotion, sprinkled with some kind of cinnamon _hope_ , all brown sugar-sweet.

"I had no idea you'd feel this way," Stiles rasps, soft and cracking with emotion. Derek takes a shaky breath, swallows.

"Neither did I."

"I'd ask if you want this," Stiles giggles quietly, "I mean, it's so _soon_ , and- and, who knows? But, it's pretty obvious that you _do_."

"And you, do you-?"

" _Yes_ ," Stiles' eyes are suddenly fierce-fury, full of fight and determination, his hand pressing Derek's more firmly against his stomach, "Mother Mary, yes. Fuck. I never thought I'd... but I suddenly want it to be true so _badly_."

"What if it isn't?" Derek breathes, suddenly terrified for completely different reasons, his heart plummeting, "What if we're just overreacting and it's all just a fa-"

Stiles pulls him in, crushes the rest of his worries with a bruising kiss, and says, in a wrecked, ferociously vehement voice, "Then we _know_ , my love, my Alpha. We know that this is something we want."

Derek swallows, realizes a little belatedly that Stiles has spent all day puking, and that it must be a testament to how much he loves the man that he honestly doesn't care.

"Yeah," he murmurs, and kisses his Omega again.

* * *

The pills help, and the nausea recedes eventually, but Stiles still spends the whole week, the week that he was _supposed_ to be in Heat, in Derek's lap feeling odd and uncomfortable, with butterflies flitting around in his heart, a bubbling, ominous sort of delighted anticipation swallowing him whole, with an undercurrent of Derek's almost mirrored emotions.

It's, it's _intense_ how much Derek wants this, the flip it switched as soon as he even recognized it was a _possibility_ , and _Stiles_ , Mother Mary, he wants it just as much, _more_. A pup, _their_ pup.

The trill of his phone ringing on the coffee table pulls them both from the majesty that is Firefly, and Stiles scoops it up as quickly as possible, considering being a relative blanket burrito snuggled up against his lover's thigh.

"Melissa," he breathes when he sees the caller ID, "it's Melissa."

Derek makes a noise that could be a purr or a growl, snatches the phone, and puts it on speaker.

"Call it a mother's intuition," she says immediately, "but I was right."

Stiles squeaks- _squeaks_ \- and Derek's whole face looks like sunshine and cloudless skies and fucking _rainbows_.

"I'm pregnant? Actually, seriously, _legitimately_ , like, with _child_?"

Her laughter is like windchimes over the phone, "Yes, Stiles. Congratulations!"

Stiles launches himself at Derek, the phone clattering to the ground somewhere as Melissa, thankfully getting the hint, hangs up on them, laughing the whole way. "Der," he cries, feeling the soar in his emotions and his lover's, feeling _incredible_ , invincible, and so, so, so beyond fucking happy that he can't even see straight. Derek's trying, he really is, to kiss Stiles back, but they're both smiling so wide it's more a clacking of teeth than anything, and Stiles just doesn't _care_. "You're gonna be a daddy!" he crows, then, giggling at the purring rumble Derek lets loose at that as he curls into Stiles, nuzzles into the collar around his throat, "Mother Mary, _I'm_ gonna be a daddy!"

Stiles can feel Derek smile into his pulse-point, before he bites down lightly, his rumble as playful as it is delighted. And Stiles, suddenly, has the very, very _best_ feeling about today.

* * *

"Huh," Scott frowns at his phone, and Allison dimples at him, the bustle of the airport not so totally overwhelming, considering it's a decent amount of time after the holidays, and Beacon City is terribly small and out of the way compared to most places in California, like a little secret.

"What is it, babe?"

"Just, Stiles isn't answering," Scott shrugs it off, leaning in to kiss her, and grinning at her when they part. "I wanted to tell him you guys got in early."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be fine," Kate beams at him from behind her niece, "besides. Who doesn't love a surprise?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the _shortest_ chapter, to date, lol, but also the fluffiest.
> 
> For those of you who guessed pregnancy, *ding-ding-ding*! Bonus points if you guessed Kate ^^
> 
> Also, I'm evil, I know, don't hate me! lol


	6. Sugar & Spice & A Sky Full Of Northern Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking this journey with me!!! Love, Love, Love you guys, you're absolutely amazing.

Stiles feels the absolute epitome of contentment, sprawled out on Derek's chest, filled with his Alpha's knot, held together by him, grounded by that fullness. The position is more comfortable than it should be, him straddling the other man on the couch and all, and he wants to laugh with the knowledge that, in a few month's time, they probably won't be capable of this. They'll have to figure out how to work around the baby bump, which is just... Gah! No words. He's lost the ability to think. Happiness and serenity and post-orgasmic bliss have him all sleep-fuzz soft-cotton.

"Hey," he murmurs into Derek's sweat-cool shoulder when a thought occurs to him, fingers fiddling with the collar around his throat. "When do you think it... happened?"

Derek hums, thoughtful, hands running up and down Stiles' sides, grazing shallow cuts and making him shiver. "Well, the only time we ever— without a condom was..."

Stiles blinks, lifts himself up on his elbows to look down into his Alpha's heavy-lidded, fathomless hazel eyes. "You think it was the first time? The very first time you made love to me," a smile slowly steals across his face, "we made a baby?"

Love floods through him, cacoons him in _warmth_.

"Yes," Derek agrees, eyes gone impossibly soft, all watercolor and fish scales and _life_. Stiles shifts, feels the knot grind against his prostate and whimpers, Derek's eyes fluttering shut with a spike of _pleasure_ coursing through him, hitting Stiles low in the gut and making him whine.

"Baby," Derek groans, his hands coming to rest on Stiles' hips, and Stiles presses his fingertips into Derek's collarbone, pushes himself up into a sitting position, grinding down on his Alpha's knot with a panting mewl. "Fuck, you're gonna kill me, aren't you?"

"Mm-ah! Ahh, Der," Stiles takes a deep breath, clenches his muscles around Derek's cock just to _feel_ the shock of it between the two of them, hear the sounds it pulls out of them both. "Your knot feels amazing inside." He takes it deeper, twists his hips a little and marvels at Derek's gasp.

His nails scratch lightly down Derek's chest as he flexes his thighs, throws his head back with a loud moan, his Alpha using a bruising grip on his hips to move him faster, how they're knotted together making each thrust a tiny, little grind of friction, _deep_ , frustrating ache.

"Harder," Stiles mewls, "please, Alpha. I'm, uhn-" he gasps, his trembling arms giving out, making him curl into Derek, breathe the rest in his ear- " _so_ close."

Derek bites out a growl, digs his teeth into Stiles' shoulder, making him go still and pliant, releasing control as the man under him winds his arms around Stiles' back and flips them over, grabbing one of Stiles' legs and hooking it over his arm for a better angle, snapping his hips as he presses Stiles further into the cushions, the emotions dancing between them, exhilarating-rush pushing him further and further toward release, dangling him over the edge.

"I've got you, baby," Derek breathes, nipping at his lips, licking into his mouth as he reaches down, grasps his dick, sends electricity through his veins. " _Fuck_ , Stiles."

A few more grinding thrusts and a mind-melting kiss is all it takes, and it's like being split open, like ascending to some sort of spiritual epiphany, his body is on _fire_ , and the aftershocks are like being hit by lightning, and all he can remember is the taste of Derek's name on his tongue before he blacks out with the pleasure.

And he _dreams_ , of his mother in her red sundress, auburn hair curling around her shoulders, fresh honey in her eyes and the _wind_ , gentle and lulling, and beside her is a little girl, hair the sandy blonde of his father, eyes with fish scales in them that remind him of koi, and the way she _smiles_ , it lights up the whole goddamn sky.

* * *

"Huh," Stiles says as they leave his house, planning to head over to the loft and check on Poughkeepsie. "Scott called, like, three times, and he texte- oh!"

"What is it?"

Stiles beams up at him, overwash with the scent of sun-warmed sand, willow sap, and the meat of blackberries. "Allison got in. We should head over to dad's after we take care of Pookah."

Derek smiles, kisses his Omega's temple in agreement.

He's a little surprised and worried, however, when they get there and he doesn't hear her tiny, little heartbeat. When they get inside, his fears are only elevated to see the window, glaringly wide open.

"Neither of us have ever opened that window," he growls, and, unfortunately, the fresh air has overtaken any evidence of someone else's smell. Stiles, beside him, frowns as his eyes scan the room.

"Nothing else is off, and nothing looks missing," he comments quietly.

"I can't hear Poughkeepsie," Derek tells him, the Omega's eyes jerking up to his with fright.

"Shit," he exclaims, dropping his messenger bag down with a thud and rushing through the rooms, checking around. "Shit."

The next hour or two sees them running around the streets and alleys below looking for her, Stiles wondering frustratedly if she got out or if they legitimately just got cat-napped. Derek promising that, either way, they will find her. Stiles, running his hands through his hair, blows out his cheeks with a large exhale.

"She's not even _my_ cat," he says, but Derek's already shaking his head.

"Yes, she is. You take care of her, and you love her, which is... I'm not even sure my Uncle can _love_ , in any capacity."

Stiles looks up at him, bright eyes wide. "That..."

"Did you ever feel him? Loving anything?"

"He loves _you_."

Derek purses his lips, laces Stiles' fingers with his. Maybe Peter did, maybe, when he wakes up, he _will_. But, he honestly doesn't want it. He _hates_ that man, the feeling is reinforced every time Stiles is surprised by his own happiness, surprised by other people's kindness, is naked in front of him and _littered_ with as many scars he can't see as scars he _can_.

"I didn't mean to make you lose him," Stiles says softly, and Derek squeezes his hand.

"It's not your fault, baby. Don't feel guilty for this, Stiles, please?"

Stiles kisses him, soft and open-mouthed, right underneath his jaw, and sighs shakily, reaching up to fiddle with his collar. "We'll find her, right?"

"Promise."

* * *

As soon as they enter the Stilinski house, Stiles is assaulted by- mostly- feel-good happy, but underneath that, there's something... _off_. An energy, an emotion, it tastes like static, white-noise, like the sick-tingle of letting your foot fall asleep, and that moment when you move it to wake it up. It isn't... _right_. He's never felt anything like it before.

Allison disentangles herself from Scott long enough to hug him, marvel at his new accessory. "Oh my gosh," she beams as she pulls away, "it's so good to see you! And, man, that collar is beautiful! It suits you."

"Yes," says a woman he's only ever seen in pictures, only ever seen in passing, dreaded, for the longest time, meeting in person. She flicks blonde curls over her shoulder in a move that's oddly reminiscent of Lydia, eyes Derek up and down so _obviously_ that he feels a moment of confused disgust from the other man, before she finally offers her hand to shake. "I'm Kate," she says, cherry-red smile saccharine and cloying, "Allison's Aunt, your Uncle's ex, too, actually. You might remember me?"

"Yeah," Derek permits, taking her outstretched hand as the feeling of disgust increases. Stiles remembers him saying once that he never liked her, and, now he's finally met her, and all he can feel from her is _whitenoiseoffwronghollow_ , he's pretty sure he doesn't like her either.

"And _you_ must be Peter's new _pet_ ," she purrs, coquettishly condescending.

"No. I'm Derek's," he doesn't even bother correcting the _'pet'_ part of it, doesn't bother telling her how derogatory and cruel that term can seem, especially to an Omega. Considering she _is_ an Omega, she should already fucking _know_. Allison, who's another Alpha, one who's been bullied for her decision to be in an Alpha/Alpha relationship, and knows just how subtly insulting her aunt is being, is suddenly feeling put-off, wrong-footed, and just the slightest bit concerned.

"I _told_ you that, Aunt Kate," she says, a little defensive, "that he broke off the engagement with Peter?"

"And he's _not_ anyone's _pet_ ," Derek tells her, a _lot_ defensive. He even steps forward a little, putting Stiles slightly behind him, a surge of warm protectiveness coming off of him like hickory smoke.

"Oh, right," Kate says with one of the _fakest_ pouts Stiles has ever seen. "I guess I forgot." And with that, thankfully, she backs off, letting Stiles have the rest of his reunion with Allison in peace. That is, until, he brings up Poughkeepsie.

"Oh, you mean Kitkat? I took her."

"Wait... what?"

Kate looks up from some book she's reading- a romance novel, Stiles thinks- with a simpering smile. "Kitkat was mine. I gave her to Peter before he popped the question, to look after while I was in France. And then he asked if I would marry him, and I said no, and he must've thought that meant he could keep my cat. It didn't, though. Sorry," she says, and the word sounds so, so insincere, "if you got confused. But you seem like more of a _dog_ person, anyway?"

A chill runs through him, and he doesn't even know _why_. On the surface what she just said doesn't even mean anything, but... His instincts, they're telling him this woman is dangerous, and the way she said it suggests some hidden meaning, and, fuck, the way she's looking at Derek tells him _exactly_ what that hidden meaning is. One of his hands goes to his stomach instinctively, and the other reaches for Derek, holds onto him for dear life. Derek notices, though he doesn't react outwardly, Stiles can feel his emotions, protectiveness and love and soothe, all wrapping around him like the warmest most comforting blanket in existence. He can almost feel him saying _'Breathe, baby. It'll be okay.'_

"I'm not biased," he manages after the moment it takes to calm himself down, and for a fraction of a second, he thinks he sees her smirk. "I'll miss her," he whispers, and she smiles in a faux-sympathetic manner.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sure, as long as you keep yourself away from filthy mutts, that we can set up something- so you can visit."

Right now, all Stiles wants to do is _steal_ Poughkeepsie away from this bitch, go home, and curl up with the little cat in between him and Derek's bodies.

* * *

"I hate her," Stiles says once they get into the car, Derek's never scented him smelling like this, like lemon-soaked cracking clay, like rusted rain, "I hate her, and she's dangerous, and I want Poughkeepsie back."

Derek looks at him, his Omega seems frustrated and furious, and he has every right to be, Kate was...

He'd known that she was a hunter and that she wasn't particularly fond of their kind, and he'd known, too, the way that, even with Peter, she'd always vaguely insulted them. But this was more potent, more aggressive, and directed at the man he loves. It just feels unsafe. Like they're mice in her trap. And he really, really despises that feeling.

"Do you remember, that first day we met? And you said something about old bad-blood between Kate's family and ours and it being almost funny that Peter and Kate dated, in light of that?"

Stiles nods slowly, a frown firmly in place, like he's already beginning to guess at what Derek's about to explain and he doesn't like it in the _slightest_.

"Well," Derek sighs, "there's more to it than that."

Stiles runs a hand over his face with an aggrieved groan, " _Of course_ there is."

* * *

Poughkeepsie's savior, surprisingly, comes in the form of one Allison Argent, knocking on their door with the little cat meowing in her arms.

"Pookah!" Stiles exclaims, accepting the distressed animal when she's handed to him.

"I'm so sorry about my Aunt, Stiles. I really don't know why she was being so stubborn about it when she didn't even want it in the first place. My Mom's allergic to cats, so she said we couldn't keep her in the house, and. And Kate gave in _so_ easy, even after everything she said to you yesterday," Allison has this little pucker in the middle forehead, all innocent confusion and tired frustration. "She was just gonna take her to the pound, like it was nothing, and I- I offered to take her instead, because I knew you guys already wanted her; I remembered, you know? What you said about, um, Poughkeepsie. Really, Aunt Kate's not normally like this. I don't know what's gotten into her."

"It's okay, Ally," Stiles tells her, wisely setting his charge down before she scratches a hole in his shoulder- allowing her to go hide under something and adapt to her new surroundings, not to mention have some peace after totally having been _cat-napped_ \- before pulling the woman into a hug. "Thank you for bringing her to me. And, no offense, but you're Aunt's kind of an asshole."

Allison laughs, shakes her head, "I didn't used to thinks so," she says, a little frown overtaking her usual cheer, "but lately? She's. She's changed."

"'M sorry Allison," Stiles says, knowing she feels hurt by this, and confused, and a little bit like she wants her old Aunt back.

"You can't choose your family," comes Derek's voice, quietly earnest in an odd way, and when Stiles looks up at him, when Stiles _feels_ him, there's loss there, and resentment, and a distraught kind of disappointment- all, Stiles knows, directed toward Peter.

"No," Allison agrees, feeling much the same, but in smaller amounts, not as heavy. "You can't."

They bid her goodbye with smiles and good wishes, and Stiles closes the door before turning back and giving into every single need he's had to hug this man for the past five minutes. Or, two days. Six months. Five years. Whatever, semantics. He feels a rush of love swelling inside of him that's entirely his own and almost manages a grin for it.

"We need to tell the Pack," he murmurs quietly.

"They already know she's in town, baby. And we have a treaty with the Argents, she can't do anything except-"

"- be a bitch? Yeah, I got that," he snorts, pulls away shaking his head, smoothing his hands up and down the solid lengths of muscle that are Derek's arms. "No, I mean. I want to tell them about. About our pup?"

He feels a ball of fuzzy warmth, giddy and excited, rise in his throat, and he _knows_ it's from Derek. He kisses his lover's nose, because, yes, that's part of it, those are valid things to feel, and he absolutely adores the dazzling way Derek's smiling right now, but that isn't why, not entirely.

"Der," he says, worries at his lip, making Derek frown at the apprehension he must see in his eyes. "I'm an Empath, you're a werewolf, we have no _idea_ what they will be. And, even without that worry, even knowing about the treaty, I _can't_ trust- I mean, what she _felt_ like, Der. She was like a black-hole, like a cavern of _nothingness_. I've felt bad people before, I've... I've felt your _Uncle_ \- I've _never_ felt anything like that. Rage and fury, even a pull to _hurt_ , to, to _kill_ , but never just. Just white-noise."

Derek reaches up to cup his face, search his eyes as his emotions soften with sudden realization, sympathy, and an undercurrent of worry. "She scared you," he surmises, quiet and tender, understanding. Stiles takes a deep breath, his fingers fisting into the sides of Derek's shirt. He's sure, if this were anyone else, if he didn't trust and love Derek as wholly and unconditionally as he does, he would've run away from that, he would've rebutted it with sarcasm and a witty remark, but he can find nothing but honesty on his tongue, waiting to be spoken.

In the face of this person, this honorable, wonderful, _kind_ man, he can't hide. He's stripped bare, and so entirely himself that it's like diving into the ocean, it's like escaping into that freedom, and he wonders when the novelty of it will wear off, when he'll stop second-guessing and over-thinking and being so goddamned blown away.

"I want to _live_ ," he says, can't bring himself to do more than whisper, it's such a simple wish, but it feels so _selfish_ , it feels taboo. Derek's face crumples, and there's so much heartbreak there that it takes his breath away, that someone could feel that for him, could understand this so deeply and accept it so readily and _feel_ because of _him_. "Not just for our baby, for _myself_. This is- god, Der. This is the first time I've ever felt like that, _wanted_ that. I'm _petrified_."

"Fucking _hell_ , Stiles," Derek breathes, swallows convulsively, pulls him in, nestles him right there in that crook between his shoulder and his neck, and holds him as tightly as he possibly can, all of his emotions in upheaval, swirling, and Stiles finds, tears beginning to well in his eyes, that Derek really, really wants him to live, too.

Mother Mary, how fucking incredible is that?

"You are," he sniffs, breathes as deeply as he can through the salt-water, "the _very best_ of us, Der."

* * *

Laura wants, desperately, to kill her Uncle. She's sure, absolutely positive, that she will, she's even sure she'll get away with it. She has a plan, to do it slowly, and, because she is no coward, to do it when he's no longer sleeping. She has seen, now, so much more of who Stiles is as a person, Derek's brought it out in him, and, honestly, vice versa. She's seen, when he stretches, when he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, when the cloth moves to bare skin, his scars, visceral. She's smelled, when someone goes to touch him without warning, when people say specific things, the reaction it brings out in him, ice and pain and _wrong_.

The way Derek touches him, like he's fragile, special, something he cherishes with all of his being, something to marvel; that look in her little brother's eyes, like he's completely _overwhelmed_ by his feelings for that man. And how he looked when they divulged their relationship to the Pack, like, Gods, like he would _lose them_ , willingly, and terribly, and with a fucking smile on his face, if it meant he got to stand next to Stiles.

She's heard stories of True-mates, never seen them in real life, always thought they were legend, really, but she has no doubt, now, that that's what the two of them are.

Just like she has no doubt that, while her Uncle was in a relationship with Stiles, he was _abusive_. The signs are so clear it's _disgusting_ , which is probably why, ever since those two incredible, wonderful men cleared the air about their relationship, the Pack has been very, _very_ lenient about keeping vigil over him.

No one wants to be his keeper, not when, even those who don't _know_ , at least _expect_. Part of her wonders how he's going to feel when he wakes up and notices all of his Pack-bonds have faded almost completely to nothing.

Still, they need to be on-guard, if only slightly, now that Argents- well, Argents other than Chris and Vicky- are in town. The others have work and school, things on their plate, and no one even bothered thinking about asking this of either Derek or Stiles (if they had, she might've skinned them, on principle), but she was free today, so. Despite everything... she's here.

"Hello, Uncle," she greets, blasé, "I hate you muchly."

Then she sits, takes out her sketch pad, and ignores the vegetable on the bed without further ado. It's barely minutes later when she hears heels clicking on the linoleum flooring, then a heartbeat that's mildly familiar, then perfume that's cloying, pungent, agitating, then she's there, cherry-gloss lips, deadly eyes, and blonde curls.

The woman smiles at her like a viper, cold steel in her teeth and poisonous winter in her eyes.

"Hello, Laura," she purrs, all velvet rubbed just the right way.

"Fuck off, Argent."

"Now, that's not very nice," Kate says, pouting in full, childish, gross, force. "Since I'll be your Aunty soon."

"What. The _hell_. Are you talking about?"

"Oh. That Rut-Slut didn't tell you? Y'see, Peter was gonna marry _me_. Proposed and everything. I said no, of course, I wanted to test his conviction in us, in our relationship. He was determined, I _know_ he was, probably all geared up to fly to France and convince me when that _bitch_ made him crash his car. All to play up the sympathy card to a bunch of filthy mutts. He probably just wants your money, you know, he probably has _no idea_ what you are."

"Oh, Gods. You're insane."

Kate smiles, a thin, sickening thing, wide and manic on her face, something _mad_ glittering in her eyes, "Hmm, maybe. But I do wear it well, don't I?"

"Ugh," Laura wants to vomit. Is she serious? Laura can't even tell. Her phone dings with a text, Derek and Stiles are calling a meeting again. She doesn't know what that's about but she's honestly grateful for the excuse to leave. When she looks up, Kate has moved, gone to sit beside Peter and run her dainty fingers through his hair, muttering something in his ear too low for even Laura to hear. "Ugh," she says again, succinctly, before decidedly leaving the grotesque couple.

She hears Kate laugh on her way out, and has to suppress a shiver.

* * *

"Holy shit," is the first response to their news, and, surprisingly, it's Isaac who breathes it, utterly bulldozed by surprise. It's the catalyst that breaks the shock, however, and next thing Derek knows, they're being bombarded with congratulations, hounded with questions, stormed with absolute, utter glee.

 _This_ group hug, a congregation of everyone's bodies in the middle of the room, is far less languid, steadfast support, and far more manic fucking glee, hell, most of them are jumping up and down, squealing incoherently, and Granddad's got this twinkle in his eyes as he says, "Great grandbabies," that instantly makes Derek feel wary. When they all part again, Stiles is laughing and breathless, obviously overtaken by the good cheer of the Pack, but there's still that tightness around his eyes.

All that worry.

He understands, he wants their baby to be safe too, but it's more than that, Gods, it's so much more than that. But Pack protects Pack, knowing that Stiles is with child, it'll change things, the Pack will become more aware of him, they'll flank him, their instincts will make them want to be near, to keep him and the baby as healthy as possible until it can be born safely. No Argent will be able to get near him, or their child. Hopefully, that'll be enough to assuage some of those fears, some of that loneliness, too, that Derek knows still lingers.

"When," Laura's been chanting this whole time, she's laughing, twirling, hugging, so damn excited for both of them, "Gods, when, when! When did it happen? _How_?"

"Lau," Stiles begins, deadpan, "you're an adult. I'm sure you can figure out the how _all on your own_."

Laura giggles, whacks Derek on the shoulder like he's the one who told the joke, which he's glad for, really, if she'd done the same to Stiles he's pretty sure the Omega would've bruised instantaneously.

"As for when?" Stiles' eyes light on Derek's, soften, the tension in his shoulders eases somewhat, and that thing he does, where it seems like he's always holding his breath, releases on an exhale, "About a month ago, I think."

"Awwwwww," Laura coos, drawing it out sickening-sweet, "oh my goodness, it's probably the size of a _dime_ right now!" And then she's off, whooping and, in general, making a lot of noise, and crash-glomping everyone she can get away with.

Mom comes over, smiling at them fondly, patting Stiles on the cheek, "Early days for you yet, sweetie. You'll start showing in no time, and then, my boys," her eyes sparkle like afternoon wine, enough to make the Pope drunk, "the panic will start."

"Hey," Stiles begins to her already retreating back, "Hey! That's not fair, I'm already panicking, thank you so very much!"

Derek snorts, winds an arm around Stiles' hip, protective, grounding, comforting. Stiles sighs and leans into the touch. "I want to stay here," he says, "for a little while. I feel safer here."

Derek presses a kiss to the man's temple, holds him closer. "Okay, baby." Stiles looks up at him, wide-eyed vulnerability, and Derek feels himself melt under the gaze. "It'll be okay, Stiles. It _will_."

His Omega merely smiles, a little wry, and says, "Well, you haven't been wrong so far, why would you be wrong now?"

* * *

Talia has a large home, and until a few months ago, Derek was among its residents, but, she's assuming for the purpose of hiding their relationship, Derek's been living mostly in the flat above his Gym, lately. Though she doesn't delude herself, she's quite sure he, in actuality, spent most of his days at Stiles'. After they admitted to their relationship, her son had all but moved in with Stiles. Only, now, suddenly, after announcing the pregnancy, both of them, along with their cat, have seemingly moved into Derek's room on the third floor.

She doesn't know the reasons for this, though it settles her wolf somewhat, that the member of her Pack carrying pups is close by, in fact, it seems to have a calming effect on everyone, having Stiles near, and not just because of his condition. The man has a way about him, a sort of intellect and strength, for all of his fragility, and a _need_ for people that's so raw it pulls everyone in, a kindness, simple in its unconditional constance that keeps them there. The fragility plays it's own part, too, because knowing and feeling that a member of their Pack is hurting, human, alone, and not connected by blood, nor time, really, it creates an instinct, a want to bond with their new Pack-mate, and that goes into hyper-drive when you consider that he's pregnant.

So she's all too happy to accommodate them, especially since it grants her the ability and freedom to witness certain things she wouldn't be able to otherwise.

Derek had once been, well, not out-going persé, he still had all his stoicism, to some degree, but he hid it behind sports and- she loves her son, she does, but she'll be honest with herself here, she's changed his diapers, she's earned the right- douchebaggery. He was a poser, a jock, a knothead, on the outside, anyway, to fit in, more than anything, she thinks. Which is why she hadn't been at all surprised when he'd fallen in love with a cellist, a grade A student in all the advanced classes who, of course, didn't care much for him at all, in the beginning. And then she began to, or so it seemed, and he'd been so in love, so pleased, so determined to believe she was perfect that he missed all of her flaws.

Talia had told him not to tell the girl of their heritage, the first reason being that she didn't trust Paige, didn't trust the cold, greedy glint in her eyes when she talked about going to Julliard and all the money it would take even _with_ a scholarship, the second reason being that she did not wish to see such a girl break her son's heart. In the end, it had been inevitable, and the breakup had been messy, ugly.

But she had seen what the two were like together, how Derek was somewhat softer with her, for all that he still kept his true self hidden, how he'd behaved around her. How upset he'd been when she'd run away, taking thousands with her as a negotiated bribe to keep her mouth shut on all things supernatural, not that anyone would've believed her, but the Hales weren't wanting for money in any capacity, and if one quick payday kept her from doing further damage, Talia didn't much care. That relationship, along with a few others that had ended in flames, caused Derek to change somewhat.

He stopped using masks of perfection and Alpha and jubilance, he exchanged them all for blankness and severity and intimidation, he protected himself that way, and it had worked, for a time. Talia had missed her son's smiles, even the fake ones.

Now there's an Omega on the couch, head in her son's lap, hands on his belly, and Derek's smiling like it's _easy_ , fingers scratching through what is now quite a mane of russet brown hair, finding delicate strands, wild and curly, separating them into threes and composing delicate braids as Stiles hums, off-tune and ridiculous. Derek smiles wider, the skin around his eyes crinkle, and the hazel eyes he inherited from her sparkle like sunlight reflecting off of lake-water. Stiles opens his eyes on a lilting note and catches the look, he smiles back, though his aches a little more than Derek's does, but it's over-full with that same kind of deep _deep_ love.

"I love you, Alpha," his honeyed voice whispers, quiet, intimate, and Derek hunches down to capture his lips in a small, sweetened kiss.

"I love you, too, baby."

Stiles is nothing at all like Paige, and Derek is nothing at all like he used to be, but what surprises her even more, is how much he's _changed_ in the short time he's known Stiles. It's not even a conscious thing, he's not acting, crafting a new mask, withdrawing, he's _growing_ , and it's amazing.

They disagree, too, sometimes. She's only ever heard it once, and it wasn't anything like she was expecting. Stiles, it seems, doesn't want to be the reason Derek loses his relationship with Peter.

"But, how, Stiles? How do you expect me to have _any_ love for him, after-" Derek stops, swallows, pushes his fingertips under Stiles' shirt and splays his hands somewhere she cannot see. "I know," he swallows again, "I know what he did to you. I know the things you do to _yourself_ because of how- how he fucked with your head. I don't want you to feel guilt for this, baby. I- even if it weren't you. Even if it were Kate he had done this to-" Stiles flinches, slightly, and Derek sighs- "I would be reacting the same way, because I didn't like him much in the first place, and knowing that he could _hurt_ \--" Derek chokes on the words, shakes his head.

"Der," Stiles says, and he sounds tired, resigned, sick with worry over something deeper that she doesn't know, didn't catch. He captures Derek's face in his hands, gazes at him searchingly for a moment, presses their foreheads together. "I guess it doesn't make much sense, me fighting so hard for this?"

Derek smiles, a brief, aching, little curl of his lips. "You're an Empath. I understand, as much as I _can_ understand, but I can't change how I feel for him, now, after everything. The best I can do is... not kill him, not discredit him, like I was planning."

Stiles sighs, lets his forehead slip down to Derek's shoulder, pulls him closer so they're in a loose embrace, "But it's not just you, is it?"

"No," Derek admits. "No, it isn't."

And they're right. Stiles and Peter's relationship, Stiles and Derek's relationship, it's had a bit of a polarizing effect on everyone, for several reasons. All of which, having just overheard that conversation, seem incredibly valid. Her son, maturing for a beautiful, down to earth, Empathic Omega who loves so deeply and wholly that it seems almost ethereal, almost beyond imagining, to witness. The Pack can see it, smell it, feel it easily, and while there isn't much love lost between all of them and Peter- he has been quite the difficult character to deal with- there has _always_ been love for Derek, and, now, after Stiles, there's abundantly more, because every change he's made has been for the better.

It's with all of these thoughts in her head that she heads over to see her little brother in the hospital, that she takes in the sight of Kate Argent sitting by his bedside, and leaves without ever entering the room.

The Pack-bond, with that simple decision- an Alpha unable to trust, care for, or _protect_ her Beta- breaks with a crisp, terrible finality. She knows everyone will feel it, and the only emotion she can manage to conjure is relief.

* * *

"I'm half inclined to think," Stiles begins slowly, dipping his pickle into his chocolate pudding cup, "that our pup is made out of this stuff."

Derek, in front of him, trying to assemble the crib, rocking chair already in the corner, snorts. "I wouldn't be surprised."

Stiles hums with a smile. This room, a sunroom that's adjoined with his, is going to be their nursery. They've already talked about it, about living in his house together with their baby. It's going to take some work, they already spent most of this month just cleaning and reorganizing everything, baby-proofing. It was surprisingly easy for Derek to move the rest of his stuff in, since he'd already snuck a big chunk of it in during the first few months of their relationship. Now they just have to set up the nursery.

Stiles has to be careful with painting, the smells, and the chemicals- so he's been making his own, taking walks in the Preserve with Derek, Laura sometimes, picking berries, finding things he can use and ordering everything else online. He painted the walls of the nursery with fantastical images and forests and wildlings, the ceiling he painted with stars, and- well, he's not finished yet, he's just taking a little food break and allowing himself a little ogle at his boyfriend, who keeps looking up at him to smile, like he can't even help it.

The room has a high ceiling, a little octangular nook that's all windows. It's bright, and airy, and Stiles is really excited to see what it'll look like, when it's done.

Allison and Scott have gone back to college, both wheedling him into Skyping at least once a week, but Kate's still around, staying with her brother and his wife, being exceptionally creepy about Peter, so, for now, Derek and Stiles are staying at the Hales, even as they work to prepare their house for the growth of their little family.

"Der..."

"Hm?"

"What do you think about... Mating? Claiming me?"

Derek accidentally hits his thumb with the hammer instead of the nail and chokes out a " _What?_ "

Stiles snickers at him, swirling the pickle in the pudding for an excuse to look down, hide his eyes behind the curtain of his hair. "I've been thinking about it a lot."

"You have?" There's a little wonder there, vague hints of surprise.

"It's not just for," Stiles smiles, shy and serene, putting a gentling hand over his belly. He hasn't begun showing yet, but the firmness there has softened, just a bit. "I'm never going to want to leave you, and, and maybe we're going too fast, or we're too young, or- but. We're going to have a _family_ , and I _love_ you, and I _know_ that you love me."

"With everything that I am," Derek agrees, setting down his work to crawl over, kneel in front of Stiles like he's at prayer. His Alpha's emotions swell with every breath, elation mingled with benediction and such _certainty_ it floors him.

"We're nearly there already," he whispers, suddenly incapable of breaking this sun-soaked quiet, providential sort of vibrancy. "Mother Mary, Der, I've wanted to be yours since the day I laid eyes on you."

"Are you sure?" Derek asks, brushing Stiles' hair back with his fingers, hooking it behind his ear, caressing his cheek as he searches his face.

"Yes," Stiles breathes, and his lover pulls him into a kiss so undefinably transcendent that he has no words for it, no breath left in his lungs or thoughts left in his head, with just that kiss he's already floating, high, and, for the first time since he was very, very young, absolutely unafraid.

They make love, there, the only barrier between them and the hardwood floor a paint-stained sheet, his snack left half-eaten beside their bodies. He moans so loudly he startles the birds from their trees, and Derek fucks into him, more gentle and slow and sweet than he's ever been, it's enough to make Stiles cry, whimper with pleasure and something else entirely he can't even put a name to because he's never been _touched_ like this, like his body is some kind of holy, and it _aches_ in that place where he's always been lonely, always hated himself far more than he ought to.

They come together, that warmth in their bellies surging to the forefront as their pleasure crests and spills over, and Derek bites the junction between his shoulder and his neck, right underneath his collar, blunt, human teeth digging through skin until they find blood, and Stiles, beneath him, does the same as Derek's knot swells within him.

He gasps as he's flooded with surreal visions, memories, truths. A playground, and Laura pushing him- _not him, Derek_ \- on the swing, Mom singing lullabies, running, wild and free on his first full moon. A girl, and a cello, and the first time he'd ever felt love, thrown in his face on the spear-end of cruelty, lodged in his heart, making him want to close off, close up, never want to feel it again. A woman named Jennifer, when he's older, a witch who only really wanted vengeance on her ex-girlfriend, who was all lies and chatter and him, going deeper within himself, hiding.

Stiles can't tell how long they hold each other and tremble with it, the sensation of truly not knowing where one begins and the other ends, spiritually, mentally, physically, emotionally, they drown in each other. Stiles feels _whole_ with it, and maybe it should be painful or terrifying but all it is is exhilarating, joyful. He'd never thought the Mating-bond could be like this, he'd been told that it was subtle, that sometimes you knew or felt the emotions of your Mate or where they were, but _this_.

Derek grunts, whines in the back of his throat and Stiles _knows_ , his Empathy is affecting the other man, it's too much, on top of his wolf, his other senses, and not having lived a whole life with the ability, so they learn, together and quickly so as not to hurt each other, how to put up barriers and boundaries, where to let them fall, they explore, and they live inside each other's heads until Derek's finally softening, able to pull out, pull away.

"Fuck," Stiles breathes, bringing trembling fingertips up to wipe away the tears his Mate has shed.

"I've never heard of a Mate-bond this strong," Derek's voice trembles a little, and he kisses away Stiles' own tears before flopping on his back beside him, "I can feel you," he says wonderingly, "Gods, I can remember your..."

"Yeah."

Derek swallows, sniffs, and pulls them both under a memory, and Stiles knows. His breath catches, and his younger-self swims, dives, opens himself for death.

"I've wanted to die," Stiles sighs, lacing his fingers with Derek's, still riding the crashing, abrupt waves of this new thing between them, it feels like gold, like something burning, the ache from the bite still sending spasmatic shocks down his spine, "for a very long time."

"But not anymore?"

Stiles looks at him, all red-rimmed lake-eyes and the honest terror, horrified by the thought of losing him, and smiles, soft, over-full. "No, my love. Not anymore."

* * *

They explore it, their capabilities with the Bond.

There are switches, certain things they can turn on and off, emotions they can keep from each other if they want, but the memories have already been shared, cohabitate within them. What they _can't_ turn off is the ever-present feeling of each other, they know where the other is, how they're doing, at any given time, and they know, too, if they're safe. They can't- it's not telepathic, exactly, but they can share things, pull up memories or a certain kind of emotion or what exactly they're seeing in the moment.

Once, because Stiles got bored and he wanted to test it a little, Derek and he went as far away as they could from each other, just to see if it would lessen anything. It hadn't, if anything, the further away they got, the stronger the vividity of the Bond.

Stiles thinks it may have something to do with him being an Empath and Derek being a werewolf, some members of the Pack agree, but most of them have all told Stiles and Derek the same thing.

"Do you think we are?" Stiles asks, curled into his side, reading about five different maternity books simultaneously. "True-Mates?"

Derek shrugs, kisses his hairline, "It would explain some things," he murmurs.

Stiles closes his book, finger stuck in the middle like a bookmark. "I'm glad it's you," he says, looking up at him, smelling of warmed earth, wet clay, wildberries, and wind. All pleased, happy Omega.

Derek lets the smile curl at his lips, the joy shine through his eyes.

"Me too."

* * *

Stiles groans into the toilet bowl, Laura holding his hair back and making soothing noises. Derek's at work and she had the day off, so she's staying with him, hanging out, or, they were trying to, untile bucket-loads of nausea got in the way.

"Ugh, I'm nearly to my second-trimester, shouldn't this be over now? And shouldn't it be _morning_ or something? It's not goddamned morning, fucking hell."

Laura snorts, eases him up so he can rinse his mouth out in the sink, pushes herself up onto the counter and swings her legs back and forth, watching him. "Whoever told you that was a liar."

"Assholes," Stiles grumbles, splashing his face with the water, accepting the paper towels when she offers them to him.

"Have you thought about telling them?" She asks, and for a moment he's confused, then he notices where she's looking, the Mating-Bite, healed to a raised silvery-red scar, the most beautiful scar he has, really. He knows what she's talking about, can feel it rolling off of her in waves, and he doesn't really know what to tell her, how to explain why he hasn't told his father and his brother about the baby, hasn't let Melissa say anything either, why he hasn't told _any_ of them about Mating Derek.

He wipes his face clear of water, first, gives himself time to think, before turning his back on her, on the mirror, resting his lower back on the edge of the counter. He feels Derek sending reassurance and warmth through their Bond and manages a smile for it despite himself, takes a deep breath.

"I love my family," he begins, a little haltingly, his fingers fiddling with each other, "but they aren't like yours. It's... My Mama, when she was alive? She was the glue that held us together, you know? And then she died, I _felt_ her die. My dad started drinking, and, god, he got. It wasn't like he wanted me to feel what he was feeling, and I didn't have any control over it, and. My Empathy was getting harder and harder to handle, to deal with, and he'd have to take me to the station while he was working, and I could— All of their emotions just _crawled_ into me. It was-" He shudders, takes another breath, exhales this one slowly.

"I tried to commit suicide when I was sixteen," he says, and feels her tightly controlled anger at all the things in the world that pushed him to that, her unwavering strength and love for him, her sadness, sympathy. "My Dad saved me, and he'd _needed_ me so badly, so desperately to live. He stopped drinking, I tried going to therapy, we got a little better, and. And I found Peter-" the uptick in her anger is so harsh and fast that the only thing that steadies him is Derek's emotions, grounding and calm, in the background- "and he helped, or, I thought he helped, but really he just fucked me up more. A couple years later Dad got married, had a baby and, mostly, even if it wasn't his intention, forgot about me." He sighs, "I started painting, moved out, give him as much of my money as I think he needs to keep everything going, even though he never really wants to take it.

"Now, that's kind of... the extent, of our relationship. This Christmas he'd promised to try and keep more in touch, but he hasn't, really. And Scott's," Stiles snorts, shakes his head, "Scott's busy."

He blinks past the sudden burn in his eyes, curses pregnancy hormones as he sniffs back the irrational need to cry.

"I don't know," he murmurs thickly, shrugging. "I'll tell them soon."

He hears Laura slide off of the counter, the scrape of jeans against marble, feels her wrap pale arms all covered in ink around him in a little side hug, dark, jaw-length hair tickling his nose when she leans her head on his shoulder.

"Your dad's a dick," she says bluntly, even though all of her emotions have wound down to comfort-soothe, willowy kindness, sweet-soft. "Tell them whenever you want, babe."

He huffs out a little wet laugh, leans into her, patting the arm across his chest lightly. "Thanks, Lau."

* * *

They get the call at 2:54 in the morning on a Wednesday.

The doctors don't know how or why, because, beyond the coma, Peter was relatively healthy. But he's dead. Died of an allergic reaction to... something, they don't know exactly. By the time they get to the hospital the doctors have finally found it out, and they're even more confused than before. Mistletoe poisoning. That's what killed him.

At 6 Talia will receive a call from Chris Argent telling her that Kate skipped town, and that, according to Allison, Peter broke the Code. As far as Kate was concerned, she was well within her rights. He apologizes, promises that, according to some sub-section of the treaty, he'd made Kate agree to never set foot in Beacon Hills again, which she didn't mind apparently, because she wants to align herself with the De'Margoux, a Clan of particularly vicious hunters based out of France.

It all happens... quickly, quietly. It's, honestly, sickening.

"I think you're grieving this more than any of us are," Talia tells him softly the next night, when she finds them curled up on the couch, Stiles nearly sobbing.

"Yeah," he hiccoughs. "I don't even know if it's, like, the build-up of it all, or the hormones, or if I'm just-" he makes a hand-wavey gesture that's too vague to really mean anything, and Derek presses him closer to his side, all warmth and envelop, his Alpha.

"It's okay," she says in the most motherly tone of voice he's ever heard her use, going to touch his knee, her eyes flicking up as if asking permission, he nods a little and she smiles, "to feel whatever you're feeling."

Stiles snorts, wet and thick, god his face is probably disgusting right now. "He got that from you, didn't he? The whole _it's okay_ thing?"

"Oh, yes," she beams, amusement and nurture glittering in her eyes.

"And it _is_ ," Derek tells him, kissing his hair. "Or it will be."

Stiles sniffs, nods, "Yeah," he breathes, letting the feelings of Pack and love and family coat his insides, calm him, "Maybe."

He drifts like that, manages sleep, however fitful, and dreams of a little girl with her daddy's hazel eyes, just as wide as his, her grandfather's sandy hair, his upturned nose, his lips, his moles, Derek's facial structure, eyebrows. Mother Mary, but she is beautiful. She plays along the wheat fields, and smiles at him.

"Mama," she says, eyes bright, the world so goddamn colorful. Then she laughs, and he wakes up with that sound still clenched around his heart, his hands going to his belly and a grin blooming on his tearstained face.

"What is it?" Derek breathes, jolted into awakedness by his unadulterated joy and excitement, his wildly beating heart, his fucking _elation_.

"Our daughter," he breathes, and shakes his head, it's too much, "Fuck. We're having a daughter."

"A daughter?" Derek asks, choked and a little confused and a little awed, but Stiles doesn't even care, he just kisses his Mate stupid and decides- fuck it, they're right.

It _will_ be okay.

* * *

The rest of the pregnancy is _far_ less stressful. The Hales end up casting bets on whether or not Stiles is right about the sex, many of them losing a good twenty to fifty dollars when it turns out he _is_. Laura hosts his baby-shower, and, extremely last minute, he manages to invite his side of the family to it, by way of telling them he's pregnant. And Mated. His father's face had turned a rather funny shade of red.

Derek goes to every ultrasound, the emotions filtering through their Bond stronger than any he's ever felt, like clouds of cotton candy, coating him with sugar-mist. The excitement from the rest of the Pack, too, like sunshine, warming him, making him smile.

Part of him is still frustrated, still grieving a loss he should be relieved about, still anticipating an attack that will never come, from a ghost he suspects will haunt him for the rest of his life.

But that part, the part screaming that it was _too_ easy, gets suffocated under moments spent with his family, laughing, with Derek, pressed up against him, with hands rubbing and scenting his gently swelling belly, with the Pack's reactions, when they could hear the pup's heartbeat for the first time, with Derek reading and singing to Stiles and the daughter he was carrying. Perhaps it's okay, that the ending of this fairytale wasn't blood and gore and pain, perhaps Fate threw them a break and he just needs to stop overthinking it and just... _accept_ that, even if the problem seems impossible from the inside looking out, all it really takes to save yourself, is love.

Having a child is making him sappy, he thinks, but doesn't mind at all, he deserves some sappiness after the life he's lived.

About fifteen and a half months after the car crash, after Peter began sleeping and Stiles and Derek met, Aurora Marie Stilinski-Hale is born with her paternal grandfather's sandy blonde hair, her Alpha father's koi-scale lake-water eyes, her Omega father's upturned nose, his moles, and the scent of buttermilk and freshly baked bread clinging to her soft, soft skin.

* * *

♡ ♡ ♡

* * *

"Rora!" Claudette calls after her, breathing heavily with exertion, not at all capable of keeping up. Aurora smirks at her Aunt, feeling the older girl's annoyance at her.

"Come on," she laughs, clicking her claws together, "you want to find it, don't you?"

"I still don't see your morbid fascination with this, Rora," Claudette sighs, finally managing to reach the 'were's side. Aurora shrugs.

"He would've been my Uncle," she explains softly, "if he hadn't died. Mama doesn't talk much about him, Daddy says he was an ass and he always feels... fiery about it, so I never want to ask beyond that."

"And how will seeing his grave answer _any_ of your questions?"

Aurora helps her up the steep incline with strength a tiny fourteen-year-old girl really shouldn't possess, hazel eyes scanning the Preserve for the trail she's looking for. It's well-hidden, but she'll manage.

"It won't," she sighs, looking into her Aunt's milk-chocolate eyes seriously, "but... maybe it'll give me some closure."

"Closure?"

"He's the reason my parents met. Maybe he was horrible and evil and an absolutely disgusting person-" Claudette raises her eyebrows, and Aurora beams at her- "based on what I've felt from others when I bring him up, he wasn't any approximation of _good_." Her Aunt sighs and inclines her head as if to say _fair_.

"Still," Aurora sighs, speeding up again once she knows where she's going, calling the rest over her shoulder, "he may well be the only reason I exist."

Claudette rolls her eyes, shakes her head and mutters, aggrieved, " _Closure_ ," with a disbelieving snort.

* * *

Somewhere deep, deep, deep within the Veil, a werewolf who knows ancient spells, smells the scent of _power_ , of a Spark wound with an Empath, all settled within the heart of a Wolf.

And, after nearly a decade and a half, Peter Hale stirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am evil... I regret very little, lol
> 
> Why did Kate do it all like that? Because she's a sociopath, and she was bored, literally. She thought it was funny.
> 
> Also, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a firm believer in resolutions that do come from finding strength within yourself to reach out or communicate, to start creating healthy relationships, anyway. I think I used Kate's crazy to kill Peter because, honestly, Stiles had already _figured it out_ , waking up Peter might've offered some character growth or further closure- but it was also _expected_. Not just from you guys but from the characters themselves.
> 
> No one expected him to just flat out die.
> 
> And everyone, in this world, at least, fully expects him to stay dead... *wink, wink, nudge, nudge, cackles evilly*
> 
> I hope you liked it all! This fic went wayyyyy outside of my comfort zone in sooooo many ways, but I did my best! ^^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nothing But Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15254955) by [HaterJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaterJo/pseuds/HaterJo)
  * [Sleeping Beauty's Daughter Doesn't Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15270501) by [HaterJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaterJo/pseuds/HaterJo)




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